


갈증 (Smoky Heart/A Man In Love)

by electricblueninja



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ, Super Junior
Genre: AU, Football, Haewook, Homin - Freeform, M/M, Soccer, marshmallow couple, tvxq - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 63,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> Jung Yunho. Captain of the Seoul professional soccer team.<br/>Shim Changmin. Son of Shim Senior, team manager.<br/><a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=vec9xx"></a><img/><br/>Lee Donghae. Mokpo player, ready to try his feet at the big league.<br/>Kim Ryeowook. Physiotherapist, <i>not</i> ready to try his hand at feelings.<br/><a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=dloq45"></a><img/> </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Viva

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the people I have created this elaborate fictional world about.

Yunho had never thought that he would be a guest of honour at an event at Seoul Central Lotte Hotel, or that the hotel’s room-sized elevators would prove too small for two men.

 

Yet here he was, at the tail-end of a sports awards ceremony, having been awarded for his performance at the end of his first year as captain of the Seoul professional league.

 

And there was the other guy. Shim Changmin, only son of the team’s CEO. Alone in the lift together, the doors had barely closed before the spacious, mirrored capsule began to seem painfully small.

 

Perhaps it was because Shim Changmin was so tall.

 

Yunho knew that he himself was well above average in height and physique. Ever since he’d hit about fourteen, he’d grown used to dwarfing everyone around him. Maybe a bit less so since becoming a professional footballer, where his peers were professional athletes, and tended to be tall and strong, since the profession required it. But he was still the largest player on the Seoul team by a good few inches, and even those who nearly equalled him in height were significantly lower in muscle mass, so mentally he was just kind of used to being the hugest thing around.

 

In this respect, Shim Changmin was rocking his trolley. He was slender—willowy, even. But what he lacked in muscle mass, he made up for in height: he was definitely a good inch or so taller than Yunho.

 

And he had…contours.

 

Contours that demanded attention, for although Yunho was concentrating fairly hard on staring at where the carpet turned up into the glittering, polished glass or the mirrored walls, he was consistently distracted by the reflection of Changmin’s calves, which swelled to stretch the thin black cloth of his tapered trousers. The effect was replicated above the knee, where his quadriceps strained against the material—but that was letting his eyes rise too far up those fine, long, _long_ legs. He dragged his gaze back down to the carpet, uncomfortably aware of an elevation in his heart rate that a large dinner and champagne could not account for.

 

He knew a little bit about Shim Changmin, because Shim Senior was a doting father, and proud of his only son, who had a Harvard education and, by all accounts, a mind like a steel trap. Some accounts also had it that he had about as much kindness in him as the kind of hunter who would set steel traps, but that was neither here nor there, since Yunho didn’t have anything to do with him, really, anyways, except for random handshakes under the supervision of Shim Senior at public events, like this one, where Shim Junior had been the one to physically present Yunho with his sportsmanship award.

 

His handshake had been firm, and his smile friendly but absent, like his mind was elsewhere, so as far as the list of ‘things Yunho had not expected’ was concerned, Shim Changmin following him out of the party was right up there at the top.

 

Sure, it _might_ just be a coincidence. But Yunho had this feeling that elevators didn’t start feeling small over coincidences.

 

And coincidences didn’t stand as close as Shim Changmin did to Yunho’s shoulder.

 

Not when there was a whole elevator at their disposal.

 

So when the elevator stopped at Yunho’s floor, and he stepped out into the corridor, on a very cerebral level he was not surprised when Changmin came with him. He left a respectful metre or so between them as he followed Yunho to his door, but when Yunho, fingers trembling, dropped his key card, he was there in a heartbeat. Casual as you like, he knelt to pick it up for him, and handed it back with eye contact that could’ve started a fire.

 

Yunho’s throat was inexplicably dry, so he didn’t dare try to speak. He just slipped the card in the door, opened it, and stepped aside, holding it open.

 

Changmin didn’t say anything, either—just quirked his brow and stepped inside, this smirk on his face like the cat who got the cream.

 

The door clicked shut behind Yunho, and he latched it.

 

Changmin had gone to sit on the edge of the bed, and was leaning back, resting his weight on his hands and looking almost offensively tranquil.

 

‘Do you wanna do it?’ he drawled, after a moment.

 

Yunho froze, startled by the nonchalance of the proposition.

 

‘W-what?’

 

The slightest hint of a smile played around Changmin’s mouth, like a phantasm lingering just out of sight. Only a thousand times more erotic, of course. He raised an eyebrow again, his demeanour playful, if faintly condescending.

 

‘You know. You and me. Us. Well…parts of us, anyway.’

 

He reached into his jacket, took out his phone, and switched it off, holding up the blank screen as evidence before standing to take it over to the desk, on the other side of the room.

 

‘No photos.’

 

Not wanting to seem ingenuous by admitting that such a thing had never even crossed his mind, Yunho did the same with his own phone—switched it off and took it to the desk.

 

He set it down beside Changmin’s, the sleek metallic sides of the devices close, but not touching—unlike their hands.


	2. Viva (II)

It was tacit consent, and they both knew it.

 

Yunho stared at their hands, resting side by side, trying to give his mind a chance to catch up to reality.

 

Not five minutes had passed since he’d been standing in the elevator admiring Shim Changmin’s calves and pretending his little crush was just moderate, friendly homo-appreciation.

 

Yunho had no qualms about his sexuality. He knew what he was, and he knew what he liked, and as far as looks went, Shim Changmin was about fifteen out of ten. But also, so far as Yunho had been able to tell, not interested, and probably not even into dudes.

 

So much for his gaydar.

 

But there also had to be some kind of rule that said ‘Your boss’ son is off-limits’. And if the curdling in his stomach and the erratic racing of his heart was anything to go by, Yunho was about to break it.

 

Changmin pulled his hand away and turned to face Yunho, still looking calm and relaxed, like this was something he did every day. Well, it _might_ be something he did every day—Yunho had no idea.

 

He wasn’t sure he entirely understood what was going on. Things were moving too quickly. Changmin was casual, direct, and assertive. He had reached out to Yunho, and was loosening his tie for him, his expression one of quiet concentration that made Yunho feel weak at the knees. He was quite literally of two minds: the angel, saying _I barely know you,_ and the devil, saying, _Who cares?_

 

And the devil was winning, because in a city like Seoul for a man as high-profile as Yunho, there were not, in all honesty, a lot of options for getting laid. Or at least, that was the excuse he made himself.

 

Changmin had loosened Yunho’s tie, then his own, his full lips curving in a plump, mild-mannered almost-smile, while his eye contact seemed to almost audibly whisper dirty things.

 

He was, Yunho realised uncomfortably, the single most charismatic person he had ever seen, and, while annoying on a conscious level, his faint air of superiority was deeply, unspeakably appealing.

 

His large, mismatched eyes were unrelenting as he slipped out of his jacket. Hanging it over his arm, blasé, he reached out with both hands to take hold of Yunho’s jacket lapels, and push it back over his shoulders.

 

Feeling like a very small boat in a riptide, Yunho let him.

 

Changmin took both of their jackets, and hung them neatly side by side on the back of the door. He filled out his expensive, tailored shirt better than Yunho had expected: reduced to staring hungrily, he let his eyes run over Changmin’s long, lean body, travelling at leisure over the acute inward curve of his waist and the broad spread of his surprisingly powerful shoulders, and back down again to those narrow hips, and endless legs, muscular in all the right places.

 

He realised, after a moment, that Changmin was watching him stare, looking over his shoulder with a knowing expression as Yunho’s eyes anchored to his ass.

 

Yunho looked away, embarrassed, but not before he saw Changmin smirking.

 

‘You like to watch, huh?’

 

He could feel himself going red. ‘It’s not that,’ he said, too quickly.

 

‘It’s not that,’ Changmin parroted, continuing to smile as he came back across the room.

 

He closed the space between them and took Yunho’s tie in the fingers of his right hand, laying the left flat against Yunho’s chest and backing him towards the bed.

 

The mattress hit the back of his knees, taking him by surprise, and he went down with a choked gasp.

 

Changmin followed without moving his hands from Yunho’s chest; coming up onto his knees onto the bed, astride Yunho’s hips.

 

‘Okay, Jung,’ he said, placidly.

 

He removed his hands and tugged the knot of his own tie undone, running the full length of the silky black cloth through his fingers and looking contemplative.

 

‘Is it being tied up, then?’

 

‘ _What_?’

 

‘Everyone’s got a little something.’

 

Shifting his weight over the growing bulge in Yunho’s pants, Changmin didn’t even bat an eyelid; his inscrutable smile stayed securely in place.

 

‘Or in your case, a not-so-little something.’

 

Yunho felt his breath catch in his throat. Part of him was annoyed as hell by the fact that he was being so passive and letting Changmin sit astride him, but mostly, it was paralysis.

 

His breath hissed out between his teeth as Changmin reached down between them to take a hold of his…wrist.

 

He pushed his arm overhead, with no small amount of force, and pinned him there, to repeat the process with the other. Yunho felt the silken material of Changmin’s tie begin to wind around his wrists.

 

‘You seem unwilling to talk about what you like,’ Changmin offered, in a tone of amusement, ‘So I’m guessing I’m right, on both counts.’


	3. Viva (III)

‘You…’

 

‘I’m spot on, aren’t I?’ said Changmin, flashing him a brilliant grin. ‘You like being tied down. And you like to watch. So what you’d _really_ like is watching while I blow you.’

 

Yunho had no answer to this. His ears were so hot he was surprised the duvet didn’t burst into flames.

 

Changmin chuckled softly, tossing his head to shake his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. You’ve not said enough to earn the luxury of choice.’

 

He finished tying the knot around Yunho’s wrists, then dipped his head to murmur into Yunho’s ear, in a low voice: ‘And…I’ve got a thing, too.’

 

He sat back again to smile beatifically, and applied his nimble fingers to unknotting Yunho’s tie, the gesture unexpectedly intimate. ‘It’s kind of like a punishment, for all that staring you were doing before, but…Don’t worry. It’s fun. You’ll like it. Lift your head, please, captain.’

 

Something about the way Changmin said it made it impossible to refuse, and Yunho did as he was told.

 

Changmin tugged his tie free from his collar, and, after a last lamplit glimpse of his handsome, smug face, Yunho was left with darkness, the satiny material of his own tie pressed against his brow and drawn tight. The softness of the satin contrasted with the rougher silk around his wrists—he pulled at that, experimentally, but there was no give. His investigations came to a sudden and absolute finish when Changmin’s warm fingers wrapped around his jaw, and a soft mouth hovered above his own, warm breath ghosting over Yunho’s lips.

 

But the longed-for contact never came—instead, he felt Changmin draw back, and he was literally panting.

 

Eight…nine…ten seconds passed, his senses striving to map out where Changmin was; what he was doing.

 

He knew that the other man was still astride him. That much was obvious. But everything else was left to his imagination. Changmin gave him nothing. Not a single word. Nothing until he began, with confident movements, to undo Yunho’s shirtfront, one button at a time. The pace was unbearably slow, and grew ever slower, so that Yunho’s skin began to tingle with anticipation, waiting for the faint sensation of the other man’s fingertips.

 

When Changmin reached the third button, he leant close, and suddenly the velvet surface of his lips made contact with Yunho’s collarbone.

 

Yunho jerked in response, but there was no give in the tie, and his hands stayed fixed in place. The only real response was a transition from hot, soft lips to sharp, hard teeth as Changmin grinned against his skin before continuing on his merry full-lipped way, his mouth following in the trail of his methodical fingertips.

 

Yunho could feel a whimper of desperation building up in the back of his throat, and it was costing him everything he had to keep it down. Excitement was swelling up in his core, building up inexorably, almost powerful enough to give him vertigo—like one of those amusement park rides that climbs slowly and painfully to a summit before going into freefall.

 

Changmin had completely unbuttoned his shirt, now, and had moved on to his belt. He unbuckled it to pull the shirt free and push it wide open, making an untranslatable, appreciative noise as he did so.

 

Yunho had never felt more vulnerable or more aroused in his life.

 

It was showing.

 

He knew, because Changmin slid back off the bed and ran playful fingertips over his straining erection before leaning in.

 

The whimper refused to be held down any longer, escaping through his lips, a wordless plea for nothing in particular; just something, anything at all.

 

Changmin huffed out a satisfied-sounding laugh, his breath hot through the cotton of Yunho’s shorts.

 

‘What do you want, Jung?’

 

He’d fully intended to make words—there were plenty of them in his head—but all that came out of Yunho’s mouth was another desperate whine.

 

Changmin tutted.

 

‘Ask, and you shall receive,’ he said, but Yunho’s gasping and squirming was apparently begging enough, because in the end he acquiesced, and turned it into a question.

 

‘You want me to suck you off? Want my mouth around you?’

 

He slid his fingers under the waistband of Yunho’s shorts and rested them there, waiting.

 

‘Yes,’ croaked Yunho, his voice hoarse with urgency, ‘Please, please, yes—’

 

'Good,' said Changmin, 'Because I'm really looking forward to having that thick, fat dick in my mouth.'

 

The words were so explicit and so painfully at odds with his impeccable elocution that it made Yunho's skin crawl. In the nicest possible way.


	4. Viva IV

Changmin tugged down the elasticised band of Yunho’s underwear, uncaring or perhaps just deliberately dragging the tight band down over his dick before allowing it to leap free.

 

Yunho protested with a whine, but Changmin did not deign to respond. Instead, he just calmly arranged the waistband of Yunho’s pants so that it pressed against his balls—which, though initially uncomfortable, was…not entirely unpleasant.

 

Yunho could feel Changmin watching him, the seconds dragging into something long and painful and desperate before the other man _finally_ made this little satisfied sound of approval, like an artist admiring his work.

 

Then, much to Yunho’s titillation and relief, gentle fingers wrapped around his cock, holding it steady.

 

This was followed by the soft, stimulating press of Changmin’s lips, and gave way in turn to the soothing wet heat of his mouth. A wave of deep relief flooded through Yunho as Changmin took him in.

 

Life had not been generous to Yunho with sexual encounters. His teenage years had been his most adventurous, but even then only a handful of romances that had faded quickly, cut short by the changing moods of youth or circumstantial misfortunes. Since reaching adulthood, both his opportunities and interest in romance had dwindled, exchanged with occasional one-night stands.

 

He understood and accepted that these things must be brief. The look about Changmin, too, was nonchalant, and he felt safe in the assumption that this was an event not intended to outlast the night.

 

So it was mildly disconcerting to find the heat and shape of this near-stranger’s mouth such a comfort, beyond the mere sexual gratification. It was strangely, indescribably comfortable—bizarrely, like coming home.

 

Changmin began to move, dragging Yunho back into the present moment. He was clearly in no rush, but he didn’t waste any time, either.

 

He began to suck gently. His lips formed a loose suction around Yunho’s girthy rod, and he drew them minutely—tenderly, torturously—up and down his shaft.

 

Settling a little deeper, his mouth sank halfway down Yunho’s length, and, since Yunho’s erection no longer needed his fingers to stabilise it, placed his hands on Yunho’s hips, holding him down with a gentle but commanding grip.

 

Then, he really set to work.

 

The movements were still so small, but made with care and precision. Yunho had never experienced anything like it. He was sure he had never _felt_ anything so intensely before. He could only imagine what Changmin must look like, with those full lips pulling on his cock, but no sooner did he try to picture it than Changmin eased down a little further, and the intensity of the physical sensations scattered his thoughts.

 

His awareness of physical sensation was not limited to the hot, undulating interior of Changmin’s mouth, either. He could feel everything. He could feel the rough cloth chafing at his wrists; the pressure of his waistband over his balls; his shoes, preventing him from curling his toes as the muscles of his legs drew tight and he tried not to shove himself deeper into Changmin’s mouth.

 

His body volunteered its responses to the point that it was overly informative. There was no need for him to say anything—no need for him to instruct, or request. Changmin read him like a book. Maybe he was experienced, or maybe just talented—no matter. He worked his way over the midsection of Yunho’s dick like a sculptor at their potter’s wheel, changing pace and tactic to carve an unforgettable new shape of pleasure in Yunho’s brain.

 

This was mostly constructed of physical sensation, but in the end it was the sounds that really brought Yunho undone.

 

His nervous system was already at breaking point when Changmin began to work his tongue into the mix, laving and tugging and teasing; his hands kneading where they gripped him, now his hips, now his thighs, and finally, amidst the soft soundtrack of his own moans, and Changmin’s breathing, and the soft, slippery, wet, sucking sounds, Changmin, too, began to groan and hum his—his what? Encouragement? Pleasure? Satisfaction?

 

Didn’t matter—the soft hum was both sound and physical sensation, and Yunho had the strangest sense of being encompassed and contained, all at once.

 

Changmin felt his climax building and pulled back, switching to a swift, shallow assault on the tip of Yunho’s dick and, probably seeing and feeling the way Yunho liked it, continued the stream of musical wordless coaxing sounds until Yunho crashed through the boundaries of comprehensible feeling and into the throes of orgasm, feeling nothing but Changmin and tasting nothing but the faint metallic taste of blood as his dry lower lip finally cracked under his teeth.

 

Changmin took everything, his lips tightening gently around Yunho’s hypersensitive dick as he swallowed his cum, uncompromising even through Yunho’s final, shuddering thrusts before finally taking his glorious warm mouth away.

 

Yunho protested, meaninglessly and halfheartedly, but allowed himself to be mollified when Changmin’s hand, which had come to rest on his abdomen, began to stroke his stomach, the sensation strangely comforting.

 

After that, Changmin came back up onto the bed with him—Yunho could feel him leaning over; was surprised to feel a cool had on his cheek in gentle caress before it was quickly retracted.

 

Changmin pulled the knot of the blindfold tie loose, and tugged it free.

 

Yunho was not sure what his expression was. The lamplight was too bright. It blinded him; he could barely see at all.

 

But he could see well enough to follow Changmin’s dark silhouette. Tall and broad and magnetic, even without the aesthetic pleasure of his features, Changmin rose, went to the desk, picked up his phone, and left the room without a backward glance.

 

Yunho let his head fall back against the mattress and let the darkness take him back. The room was still perfectly temperate: there was nothing wrong with the air-conditioner. But the darkness was colder without Shim Changmin near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: written blearily, after a long "weekend" that was not really a weekend at all. Apologies for any errors or inconsistencies, and the generally crappy writing. If only passion equalled ability!
> 
> Edit: Never fear. There are still many events to come. So to speak. These things take time.


	5. Evanesce

It happened suddenly: an incautious step, the impact of another player’s body, and a sharp twinge above the knee. But Donghae was too far through the movement to stop. He gave up his balance to stagger the whole way into the kick, and slam his instep violently against the brightly-coloured surface of the football.

 

To his side, the man who’d crashed into him stumbled and fell. Donghae, too, succumbed to gravity. The world span with torn-up grass and dirt as he fell into a somersault, coming up onto his knees just in time to avoid getting a face full of spikes from the other player’s shoes.

 

In front of them, the goalie stretched up, and up, but not soon enough.

 

‘Goaaal!’ howled the referee, and, in that moment, the game was theirs.

 

Clambering clumsily to his feet, Donghae threw his arms up in a show of victory, turning back to his hollering, whooping teammates and taking a step towards Hyukjae’s unmistakeable mop of dyed auburn hair—only suddenly, inexplicably, he was looking at the sky, pain radiating up into his body from his leg.

 

Hyukjae’s face appeared in seconds, followed by others from both teams, and several pairs of hands hauled him to his feet.

 

Donghae let himself be borne up into a standing position, taking hold of Hyukjae’s supporting shoulder.

 

Trying to understand what had gone wrong, he tested his weight again, and the leg held this time.

 

‘All good, guys, I’m fine,’ he said hastily, for the benefit of the milling, anxious faces.

 

At his side, Hyukjae’s relief was palpable, his open features crumpling into their natural state of smiliness as he got his face in Donghae’s way and slaps on the back and congratulations rained in from all directions.

 

But the twinge was still there the next day. And the next. And on the one that followed, on their flight up to Seoul, Donghae admitted to Hyukjae that the injury might be a little worse than he’d initially expected.

 

Promptly, through a complicated series of family connections that had left Donghae with a headache much worse than the base level pain in his thigh, Hyukjae had wrangled him into a next-day appointment at a Seoul physiotherapy clinic. He said he knew the clinician. A…a cousin. By marriage. Or something. Whatever…a relative, of some sort. At any rate, the end result was that now, Donghae was here, in the clinic waiting room, reflecting on how waiting rooms were the same everywhere. There always seemed to be the same bunch of people—the old person, sleeping; the surly uncle, glaring; the baby, staring…He was busy making faces at the latter while its mother was looking away when, from behind that very row of benches where the baby was now staring at him, totally bewildered by the blowfish face, a young man came out into reception.

 

There was a long, awkward moment of eye contact as Donghae slowly let the air out of his cheeks.

 

The young man stared a little before making a deliberate effort to neutralise his expression.

 

He looked away, flicking his long dark fringe out of his eyes and studying his clipboard, a little frown furrowing the smooth skin between his eyebrows.

 

He looked like maybe he’d been a fox in a former life. The split second his fringe stayed out of the way when he brushed it back had revealed dark, intelligent eyes, and now it had fallen back over his forehead he was all high cheekbones and sharp jawline. His delicate lips pursed in a subtle pout before he spoke.

 

Donghae experienced a strange, inexplicable moment of vertigo, or perhaps simply madness.

 

No matter how he looked at him, the man with the clipboard was the single most captivating person he’d ever laid eyes on.

 

'Lee Donghae-ssi?' the young man said, looking up and around the waiting room, deliberately circumventing Donghae.

 

For his part, it took Donghae more than a moment to recognise his own name, even though he was staring straight at the speaker.

 

To be fair, he'd never heard it said like that before, all clipped and polished. It was a voice that had grown up in Seoul; delicate and careful. It also sounded kind of like warm honey dripping off a spoon.

 

He realised that he was still staring.

 

'Oh,' he said too loudly after a long, quiet moment, his Mokpo dialect too rough and too broad, standing up abruptly, 'That's me.'

 

The guy with the clipboard moved quickly through a series of minute and unreadable facial expressions before he got it together enough to smile, but at least when he did it was not totally without warmth, even if it was faintly resigned.

 

'Please come on through, Lee-ssi. My name is Kim Ryeowook. I'll be your therapist today.'

 

Donghae followed the young man from the waiting room into the clinic, strangely disappointed by the formality of being 'Lee-ssi'.

 

He followed Kim Ryeowook down a long, narrow corridor until the other man held a door open for him, and he was ushered into the room by the gentle pressure of the clipboard.

 

It was a small room, almost filled by the massage table, with just enough space left over for a small desk-and-shelves unit covered in unctions and notes and stuff in one corner, and a chair and a wheelie stool.

 

'Please take a seat,' said Kim Ryeowook, closing the door behind them.

 

Donghae chose the wheelie stool without really thinking, driving it from side to side. A moment too late, he remembered that wheelie chairs were supposed to be for the therapists and wondered if he should get off, but Kim Ryeowook didn't seem to mind, so he stayed where he was.

 

'What can I help you with today?'

 

'It's my knee. Hyukjae said you're good with knees.'

 

Kim Ryeowook, who had gone over to his desk to find a pen, turned and blinked owlishly at him. 'Ah…you’re that friend of Hyukkie’s…?'

 

'Sure. I play football with him. We're here for pro tryouts. For the Seoul team.'

 

_Asshole, shut up. What are you doing? Trying to impress him? You haven’t even played semis yet._

 

Kim Ryeowook was apparently too nice to just laugh at him. He picked up the thread of conversation with tact, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Tryouts, huh…Are you nervous?’

 

‘Yeah. Kind of. I mean, I don’t play to become big league or anything, and I don’t mind if I don’t get in, but…’ He sighed and glared at his knee. ‘Even with this, I don’t know. I just…I…’

 

‘Always want to play your best?’

 

‘I…Yeah. Exactly.’

 

‘I can kind of see that,’ said Ryeowook, in his clipped, polished, gentle voice.

 

Donghae felt confused. _Was that…a compliment?_

 

Maybe not, because Ryeowook continued as though he hadn’t said anything. ‘Well, time is of the essence. Let’s see about your knee. How did it happen?’

 

‘It just…twinged? Like, I turned suddenly because I was trying to kick and some dude got in the way, and it went ping and it really hurt.’

 

The delicate mouth pursed again, contemplative. ‘How bad was the pain? On a scale of one to ten?’

 

‘Eight, I guess?’

 

‘Does it still hurt?’

 

‘Yeah.’

 

‘How much?’

 

‘Four?’

 

‘How long ago did it happen?’

 

‘Saturday, but I didn’t have time to see anyone in Mokpo…It happened in the game on Saturday, and we flew out on Monday morning, and Hyukjae said he’d break my other kneecap if I didn’t go see someone so he told me to see you so here I am.’

 

'Here you are,' Ryeowook agreed, the shadow of a smile lingering on his lips. This made Donghae happy. Somehow, Ryeowook didn't look like he smiled all that often. The faint lines around his eyes seemed more inclined to go in the other direction.

 

'Let's have a look at you, then. I'll need to be able to see your knees, so I'll have to ask you to take off the jeans...'

 

He stooped down to pull a basket out from under the massage table, and Donghae had already obediently removed his jeans before Ryeowook straightened up again. 'You can put these on. If you're uncomfortable I'll just...oh.'

 

He was holding out a pair of shorts.

 

Too keen?

 

Too keen.

 

Awkward.


	6. Evanesce (II)

Donghae took the shorts and put them on, trying to look nonchalant.

 

Ryeowook had averted his gaze and was making notes on his clipboard. He looked like he was trying not to laugh, which Donghae supposed was one of the better possible outcomes.

 

'Okay,' he said, 'now what?'

 

The clever dark eyes returned to his. 'I'll need to see you walk. I know it’s a small pace, but just however many paces you can get in. Can you start from the door, and come towards me?'

 

It took seven small steps for Donghae to close the space between them.

 

Ryeowook twirled his pen to indicate he should go again. 'Three times with short steps, three times with long steps please, please, Lee-ssi. How is the pain?'

 

'You can call me Donghae, Dr. Kim. I know your cousin,' Donghae said, trying to sound casual about it.

 

It was probably a bit weird to have this irrational desire to hear _that_ voice say _his_ name, but harmless enough, right?

 

'Sure. I'm not a doctor yet, though, Donghae-ssi.'

 

 _Oh, yes._ Every bit as good as expected.

 

'Oh?'

 

'I've only just applied for my PhD, so no Dr Kim yet. Better call me Ryeowook.'

   
_Yes_ _ss._

 

Donghae’s little walks up and down the room were, by some happy accident, timed so that he was able to watch Ryeowook speak, and then turn on his heel to conceal his overly excited responses.

 

He wanted to try the other man’s name out straight away, but what little presence of mind he had was warning him to preface it with something, anything, as he did his last little walk towards Ryeowook on autopilot. 'That makes sense. You look younger than me, Ryeowook-ssi.'

 

Yep, fun to say, although it sounded a little rough in Donghae’s broad vowels, like a gorilla trying not to drop a china plate.

 

'I probably am. I think I know what you've done to your knee,' Ryeowook replied with a small smile.

 

 _Smooth_. Donghae could respect that.

 

'But I still need to test the joint's strength and flexibility. Could you please sit on the table with your knees bent?'

 

Donghae obeyed and tried not to flinch as Ryeowook's fingertips sank into his quadriceps.

 

Ryeowook saw him scowl and wrinkled his nose apologetically.

 

'I know. Sorry. Can you straighten your leg for me?'

 

As it turned out, he couldn't, and after he lay down and Ryeowook conducted several painful flexibility tests on him, his injury was explained to him in technical terms and acronyms.

 

'I have no idea what that means,’ he admitted.

 

Ryeowook had well and truly recovered from Donghae's little strip show by now, and was the epitome of cool and professional as he simplified the terms.

 

Only thing was, Hae's shorts had travelled a long way up his leg while Ryeowook had been testing his flexibility, and he might as well have not been wearing them, because there was literally a full ass cheek on display.

 

Apparently, Ryeowook was fine with that.

 

Maybe he had just been surprised, before: hadn't expected his client to rip his pants off without hesitation. Seoul people must be a little more reserved.

 

'ITB strains are a common injury in athletes,’ Ryeowook was saying.‘Your ITBis here,’ he added, fingers sliding from the outside of the knee up the length of Donghae's thigh.

 

Hae swallowed thickly and willed himself not to get goosebumps as Ryeowook's fingertips paused, just below his hip. 'Pretty much, your glutes and all of your thigh muscles connect along that line.'

  
_I_ _could care less_ , Donghae thought, trapped somewhere between praying Ryeowook would take his calm, professional hand away, and wanting him to touch him more.

 

'How do you fix it?' he asked, sounding a little strained.

 

Ryeowook either didn't hear the tension in his voice, or graciously ignored it. In any event, he did not retract his hand; oh no. Instead, he slid it upwards a little, over Donghae’s exposed glute, his fingers pushing into the muscle, introducing a pain that was actually, all things considered, a blessed distraction.

 

'Usually, with this kind of injury, I'd do an ITB release and get you to postpone anything above low intensity exercise for a month.'

 

'I can't do that,' said Donghae, at the same time as Ryeowook said 'I know you can't do that,' and Donghae was embarrassed into silence as Ryeowook smiled down at him.

 

'When is your game?'

 

‘Four weeks away.’

 

'So you're going to train even if I tell you not to, I guess.' Ryeowook pursed his lips thoughtfully, his fingertips drumming against Hae's butt. 'How often do you train?'

 

 _Please stop._ 'Pretty much every day. It's comp season.'

 

'Keep your lower leg straight and bend the top leg at the knee.'

 

_No—don’t stop._

 

Ryeowook turned away and pumped a liberal amount of something white and gooey onto his palm, then turned back to spread it down Donghae's thigh.

 

The heel of his hand up Donghae’s thigh had his toes curling.

  
_Please stop._

 

A wave of goosebumps surged over Donghae’s skin.

 

'Are my hands cold?'

 

'N-no, it's fine.'

  
Ryeowook gave his thigh a final long, soothing stroke before he moved around to stand in front of Hae, rolling up his sleeves.

 

Donghae watched his skin emerge from beneath his sleeves, and thought that his skin was like the colour of espresso latte.

 

His thoughts became distinctly less complimentary when Ryeowook placed his bare forearm crossways on Donghae's leg, just above the knee, and pushed up along the muscle.

 

'Fucking ow,' he said, sharply, startled by the intensity of the pain.

  
  
Ryeowook looked up, concerned, and eased the pressure a little.

 

Hae had the strangest feeling the eye contact made more difference than the actual pressure.

 

'It's fine,' he said sheepishly, 'my threshold is kinda low. Just do whatever you have to do.'

 

Ryeowook repeated the movement. It was a little more gentle, but it still wasn’t pleasant.

 

Donghae consoled himself by watching Ryeowook in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner, glad his hair was long enough to give him some help.

 

Ryeowook was definitely two hundred per cent good-looking.

 

It took another twenty odd seconds before the penny dropped, and Donghae had a small epiphany.

 

He might like to get to know Kim Ryeowook.

 

He might like him.

 

Like properly.

 

Like, he wanted to get to know him better.

 

A lot better.

 

His thoughts started meandering into strange places where he and Ryeowook became friends. They went out together on little adventures, in his mind—for coffee—to the park—to a restaurant—on a midnight walk—stopping by a fountain—taking hold of Ryeowook’s chin, while his eyes were downcast and his expression focussed, exactly like it was now—

 

Suddenly, maybe ten minutes into this strange new torture technique, Ryeowook interrupted Donghae’s thoughts, and Donghae returned, blushing, to the present moment.

 

'Since you're just going to ruin my hard work by running around kicking balls, I'll leave it there for today. But I will run you through some exercises to add to your usual routine.'

 

Donghae nodded obediently.

 

Ryeowook washed his hands in a basin set into a sneaky alcove in the wall, and sat down at the desk, taking out a pen and a blank sheet of paper.

 

'First, you’ll need a foam roller, so you can do what I just did to you to yourself. Second, the slowest, most controlled single leg squats you can manage, for the muscles around your knees. And quad stretches. Lots and lots of quad stretches. Do you want me to demonstrate any of those…?'

 

Donghae shook his head.

  
  
Ryeowook eyed him suspiciously.

  
  
'That was too easy…Will you do them?'

 

'Yes, yes, I will, I swear,' Donghae promised, turning his smile on full wattage. 'Only, say I'm too chicken-shit to do the rollery thing. Can I come back and see you?'

  
  
Ryeowook might've raised an eyebrow; Donghae couldn't really tell because of the fringe.

 

‘I-if…if…you want to? I…think I still have an appointment free. On Thursday. Come back on Thursday.’


	7. Disvelocity

It had taken Yunho a while to work his way free of the tie after Changmin left him on Saturday night. For a while, he just lay there, stunned—physically satiated, but emotionally…well…fucked—before he began performing the complex wrist acrobatics required to escape his bondage.

 

Even after he worked himself free, he was so spaced out that he just sat there, holding the tie and staring at it, for a good half hour before he realised: it was Changmin’s.

 

Changmin had not only fucked off and left him tied up on the bed, without word or warning, but he had been in such a rush that he’d jettisoned his expensive-looking silk tie.

 

There was a weird sensation stirring deep in Yunho’s gut, unwelcome but familiar. The guilty, uncomfortable feeling that he sometimes ended up with after getting off watching porn.

 

He looked up at the ceiling, heaving a sigh, and then down at the back of the door, where the two jackets hung side by side.

 

_Where the two jackets hung, side by side._

 

Changmin had not only left him without word or warning moments after _swallowing his cum_ , but he had left almost half of his outfit behind.

 

‘Why did you do that, Shim Changmin?’ Yunho had heard himself say into the silent hotel room.

 

He said it again, now, into the silence of his own apartment, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

He was inexplicably cut up about it, really. It made no sense to feel so hollow about something so fleeting; especially not when he’d known from the outset that it would amount to nothing.

 

This was not Yunho’s first one night stand. Hell, this was not even his first blow-and-go experience.

 

The trouble was, it did not amount to nothing.

 

It amounted to something.

 

It amounted to a lump in Yunho’s throat, snagging his thoughts like a nail on a wall might snag a scarf—a split-second memory of Changmin’s silent, stoic silhouette, and everything came unravelled.

 

Why hadn’t he stayed?

 

Why did Yunho wish he had?

 

Why did it bother him so much that Changmin hadn’t _said_ anything?

 

Why did he have this inexpressible, inexplicable feeling, somewhere between regret and longing, that Changmin had not taken back from Yunho what he’d given?

 

How was this different?

 

How was it different to that time Yunho had been slightly drunk and gotten sucked off by a stranger whose name he’d never know in the back of a bar?

 

How was it different to that time that guy had blown him in the bathroom of a rural diner at lunch, and they’d both gone back out to their respective parties without exchanging more than “hi”, a few grunts, and “see you”, never making eye contact again?

 

Sure, Yunho had left those encounters feeling kind of dirty and unsatisfied, too.

 

But he had to admit that this was different.

 

It was different because, three days after the fact, he was sitting on his bed in his empty flat holding Shim Changmin’s jacket like he might be able to summon the other man into the room with it, so they could finish something Changmin, at least, had obviously never meant to start.

 

And that was when Yunho realised that it wasn’t fair of him, to be so angry with Changmin.

 

Changmin had done nothing wrong. Changmin had done as much as he had wanted to do, and that was fine.

 

It wasn’t different because of what had happened.

 

It was different because of how Yunho felt about it.

 

He twisted the fabric of Changmin’s jacket between his fingers, an unexpectedly violent impulse telling him to tear it in two and get rid of it—to literally destroy it; tear it up; throw it away. The impulse wasn’t entirely baseless, either. It would be cathartic to do it: a symbol of liberation.

 

He couldn’t do anything with it, after all. He had no number or contact details for Changmin. He couldn’t ask Shim Sr—that would lead to too many questions—and he didn’t think that they even _had_ any other common acquaintances.

 

He couldn’t _wear_ it, either—partially because of the guilt, but mainly because it was too small for his chest and shoulders. And although the tie would obviously fit, he _definitely_ couldn’t wear _that_. It smelt of Changmin and of Changmin’s aftershave, and Yunho would never be able to associate it with anything but sex.

 

So why not give vent to his frustrations by taking them out on Ralph Lauren?

 

Because he couldn’t. He came close: he _almost_ did it; got as far as jerking the soft material taut between his hands. But it was as though the silk of Changmin’s tie still lingered around his wrists, stopping him short of the final act.

 

Instead, he bunched it up and hurled it against the wall, watching with an empty feeling as it tumbled to the floor in a crumpled heap. He closed his eyes and collapsed against the mattress, wishing that the darkness was kinder.


	8. What if

On Thursday afternoon, Donghae went back for round two.

 

Ryeowook was the first thing he saw, framed through the glass door. He looked sleek and professional in his fitted black slacks and a _very_ fitted polo shirt—much more appealing than a physiotherapist had any right to be.

 

Though engaged in an animated conversation about the relative merits of Han Jaehee and Seo-somebody with the receptionist, Ryeowook glanced up and smiled as Donghae came through the door, and straightened up, smoothing out the already-smooth material of his slacks, before bowing in greeting.*

 

'I'm here,' Donghae declared, without any prompting, 'I wore shorts this time.’

 

He was forced to follow this up with his name for the benefit of the mystified receptionist.

 

Ryeowook smiled a tiny smile that he seemed to bring out whenever Donghae said or did something stupid. Which he must’ve done a lot already, if this was only the second time they’d met and Ryeowook already had an ingrained response.

 

Donghae might've been hoping too much, but at least it seemed like a fond smile.

 

'Come on through,' Ryeowook said, turning on his heel to lead the way.

 

The light cotton of his shirt disappeared tidily beneath his belted slacks, and Donghae found it altogether a very pleasant arrangement. He followed along, feeling comparatively unsophisticated in his slapdash ensemble of jacket, jersey and shorts.

 

The jacket had been an afterthought as he left the locker room, and essential insulation against Seoul’s early autumn chill, but now that he thought about it, it probably looked pretty weird with shorts.

 

He shrugged out of it on the way down the hall.

 

‘How has your day been so far, Donghae-ssi?’

 

‘Good, thanks. Just practice most of the day. I sat out of the sprints so you wouldn’t be angry with me.’

 

Ryeowook flashed him his brilliant white teeth. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Your knee will thank you for it, too. How was everything else?’

 

‘Okay. Kicking drills hurt a little, but I just stopped straightening my leg so much. It helped.’

 

He let Ryeowook usher him into the room again, the same gentle pressure on the small of his back.

 

‘Common sense can work wonders,’ said Ryeowook dryly. ‘I only wish more of my clients had it. You’re a rare breed, Donghae-ssi. Would you mind sitting on the table with your knees up, please? The same as the other day: I’m going to repeat a couple of those tests. I’m glad you tried to go gently, but I still better check for damage.’

 

He went over to the little sink and washed his hands, drying them on a small towel, which he folded neatly and set to the side, just so.

 

Even when he did menial tasks, his movements were quick and graceful: Donghae tried not to think about the mound of dirty laundry spilling out of the bathtub in the bathroom he and Hyukjae were sharing.

 

Both of them were the type to let things fall where they may, and the loser of paper-scissors-rock would sort it all out later with a good deal of loud complaining.

 

Ryeowook came to stand before him and asked him to straighten the uninjured leg, then the injured leg. The injured leg still didn’t want to go down.

 

‘How about you? How was your day, Ryeowook-ssi?’

 

‘Good, thank you.’

 

‘Long?’

 

‘Not really. I only work half a day on Thursdays, and you’re my last client.’

 

‘So you’re finished after this?’

 

‘Mhm.’

 

‘Awesome.’ _Good job, Hae. Real intelligent conversation you’re having here._

 

A couple of minutes drifted by as Ryeowook told Hae to lie down, roll from side to side and bend and straighten various joints.

 

‘I think it might be a hip thing,’ said Ryeowook eventually, and Donghae’s clever response was just to gaze up at him and make a face like a giant question mark.

 

‘Huh?’

 

‘Your hips,’ Ryeowook repeated patiently. ‘Usually, people are stronger on one side of their body. It doesn’t usually matter much, but you’re an athlete, so favouring one side can be more problematic, because the muscles that you favour will become considerably more developed. In your case, you’ve injured the left leg. So you’re right-handed, and you favour your right leg when you kick, too, right?’

 

‘Wow. That’s awesome.’ _Don’t you know any_ other _words, Donghae?_

 

Ryeowook made a dismissive gesture.

 

Donghae was frustrated.

 

He had this urge to repeat himself, and tell Ryeowook that he was awesome, but he recognised the impulse as illogical and potentially a little creepy.

 

He managed to keep it to himself, but he thought that maybe he had started to get a bit of a sense as to why Ryeowook looked like he didn’t smile much. There was a wry twist to his mouth that suggested he was often disappointed, and shrugging away a compliment like that…well, it could be excessive modesty, maybe, but even so, it was from one of two things. Either Ryeowook didn’t believe Donghae meant what he said, or Ryeowook was one of those people who just didn’t think much of themselves.

 

Donghae didn’t like either of these possibilities.

 

‘I’ll do another ITB release today,’ Ryeowook was saying, ‘but I want to have a look at the muscles around your hips first if that’s okay. They probably need to be loosened up too.’

 

‘You’re the boss. How do you want me?’

 

That earned him the little smile. ‘If you could lie on your front, please.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *착한남자… _The Kind Man_ …I think they usually translate it ‘innocent man’…it’s an awful melodrama and you should all go watch it.


	9. What if (II)

Donghae wriggled around onto his front and plonked his face into the face-hole of the table, stiffening at the unexpected brush of skin on skin when Ryeowook pushed up his jersey.

 

And pushed down the waistband of his pants.

 

‘Just relax,’ Ryeowook said, and then the warmth of his hands disappeared for a moment, covered in presumably the same sort of cream as last time when they returned.

 

Hard thumbs sank into the flesh either side of Donghae’s spine, and lower, and he heard himself moan involuntarily.

 

‘I thought so,’ said Ryeowook, a note of smugness in his tone that made Donghae’s stomach curdle.

 

Hardly ten minutes later, Donghae felt so mellow he could barely think. Ryeowook’s fingers had released muscles he hadn’t even known he had. It was excruciating at the start, but now he was kind of disappointed when the pleasure-pain stopped.

 

‘Time for the part you hate,’ said Ryeowook, pulling the side of Donghae’s pants back up.

 

Donghae made a face at the floor before rolling onto his right side.

 

‘Can’t we do it the other way round next time?’ he said, trying to sound as adorably pathetic as possible, and it seemed to work, because Ryeowook, with a fresh handful of sorbolene, was trying and failing not to crinkle his eyes in amusement.

 

‘I was trying to lull you into a false sense of security,’ he protested good-naturedly, smoothing the cream into Hae’s skin.

 

He was taking a little more time over it than he had in their first session.

 

It could just be wishful thinking on Hae’s part, but without losing any of their functionality, the long strokes seemed a little more appreciative than last time. Just a little.

 

Hae grumbled incoherently at the first slide of Ryeowook’s forearm up his thigh. ‘I still think,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘that you could at least make it nice-painful-nice, instead of nice-painful-pain.’

 

When their time was up, Ryeowook went to the corner to wash his hands in the ninja sink.

 

Donghae put himself back together and made to leave, but as his hand rested on the doorhandle, a thought occurred to him.

 

He turned around abruptly to find Ryeowook looking straight back, eyes round and questioning. They stood in perfect symmetry for what seemed like a long moment, on opposite sides of the little room, staring over their shoulders at each other. But in reality, it was probably only a second: no sooner had their eyes met than Ryeowook turned to face Donghae, drying his hands with practiced efficiency.

 

His little face was so open and kind that Donghae had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat before he tried to speak.

 

‘You’re finished for the day now, right?’

 

Not the question that Ryeowook had been expecting, apparently, because he tilted his head to the side in confusion before nodding.

 

‘Would you like to go for a drink or something?’

 

He was a little proud of himself: he managed to sound casual and friendly instead of seedy, and even spoke at a normal speed.

 

To his relief, Ryeowook didn’t look alarmed by the invitation.

 

He finished drying his hands and set the towel to the side.

 

‘That might be a little unprofessional of me,’ he replied, ‘but thank you for the invitation,’ and from his tone, Donghae understood it wasn’t about professionalism. Nor was it quite absolute refusal.

 

More like…caution.

 

He nodded slowly, and decided to accept the excuse. ‘I…didn’t think of that,’ he conceded, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Guess it would be. No problem. I was just thinking aloud. I’m all lost in the big city,’ he added, with an attempt at a blasé shrug.

 

Ryeowook tapped his lips absent-mindedly before turning back to his desk and grabbing a pen.

 

‘Where are you staying, Donghae-ssi?’

 

‘Um, Junggye. Because we’re playing at Madeul Stadium, so…One of Hyukjae’s uncles has a flat there, so we’re staying there.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘One of your uncles, I guess.’

 

‘Not one of mine,’ Ryeowook corrected, carefully ripping a small square of paper off his notepad. ‘My father is his mother’s only sibling; my aunt. Try here.’

 

He held the paper out: it had an address on it. ‘It’s on the ground floor of an apartment building,’ Ryeowook explained, ‘across from a park. It’s quiet and they do good food as well as cheap drinks. If you can’t find anywhere else that looks interesting, try it. It’s in my neighbourhood, so I go pretty often. I think you’d like it.’

 

Donghae took the little sheet of paper gently out of Ryeowook’s hand. ‘Thanks.’

 

‘Oh, and about your next appointment…I’ll need to see you about twice a week for another two weeks. But you can just get reception to book all of the appointments now, so they’re all lined up.’

 

‘I will. Thanks. And…have a good night.’

 

‘You too. Take care of your leg.’

 

 

 

For Ryeowook, the primary focus of Donghae’s appointments was probably the massage and the physiotherapy.

 

But for Donghae, the focus had shifted.

 

He knew he had to repair his knee. He had no intention of losing his game over one lousy kick. Soccer was his life and his livelihood. He took Ryeowook’s instructions as his gospel, and performed every exercise religiously. To his tremendous satisfaction, they helped in all aspects of the game. He’d never noticed his right-side dominance before: it had simply never occurred to him. Now, he made a deliberate effort to become ambidextrous with his feet.

 

(‘Ambi- what? What fancy word is this?’ ‘He means he can kick with both feet now. Look how proud he is. Learning big words from smart people.’ ‘Shut up, Hyukjae.’ ‘Or what? You’ll kick me? With both feet?’)

 

But for Donghae, the primary focus of the appointments doubled as a gloriously useful excuse to find out more about Ryeowook.

 

With a little persistence, he managed to discover that: Ryeowook was a year younger than himself. He’d dreamed of being a cook, but his parents wanted more for him, so he had business degree, but he hated it. He’d gone straight from university into military service, and discovered an interest in physiotherapy after an accident in training landed him in hospital, and he’d become friends with some of the staff who helped him recover. After finishing military service, he’d gone back to university to cram two degrees, physiotherapy and sports massage, into three years, which was faster than it should have been. (Ryeowook didn’t tell him that, but Donghae looked it up.) He’d been working in his current job part-time while he’d been studying, and he was applying to go back to university to do a PhD in sports science.

 

Donghae reflected on his own life and felt it had been quite simple by comparison. School, soccer at school, local soccer, military service (and army soccer), and then more soccer, and helping out in his parents’ grocery store. That had been his life so far, and that was all he could offer when Ryeowook returned his questions.

 

Ryeowook’s response was a little unexpected: he smiled and told Hae that he thought it was cool that he’d always known what he wanted to do. (‘You have, like, three degrees, Ryeowook-ssi.’ ‘But you have direction. I think that’s just as important. You have to do what you love.’ ‘Do you love what you do?’ ‘Not when I have a disobedient, self-destructive client like you.’ ‘Hey! I do everything you tell me to!’ ‘Then why is your back still so stiff? This doesn’t happen without impact. You participated in sprint training, didn’t you?’ ‘I…I…Ow. _Ow_. Ow!’)

 

 

 

 

A few days before the semi-finals, Donghae gave Ryeowook two tickets to the game as a thank you gift.


	10. Under my skin

After the Incident with Shim Changmin, Yunho found himself both unwilling and unable to return the other man’s belongings, and indeed increasingly reluctant to reflect on the encounter at all.

 

It had been unexpected, unfulfilling, and, in retrospect, an almost entirely regrettable situation. No matter how good the blow job had been.

 

He was no longer angry with Changmin. With time to reflect, he knew that he had not really been a victim. He’d been complicit from start to finish—and the only true crime was the one he had committed against himself, by allowing lust and naiveté to get the better of him.

 

The interaction itself was no more and no less than a sex act between two consenting adults. The only problem was the feelings that came with it, and those were Yunho’s problem alone.

 

So he was no longer angry with Changmin.

 

He just had a lingering emotional reactivity to the thought of him, and to minimise this, had put the jacket away in the back of his closet.

 

The tie, he kept in a drawer of his bedside table, and sometimes, Changmin’s scent would intrude on his dreams. But this was fine: there was no need to forget the encounter _entirely_ , and nor should he. He must remember what it was, what it had meant, and what his own weaknesses were.

 

Changmin was one of them.

 

It must never happen again.

 

In that sense, though, it could have been much worse.

 

Yunho really had very little to do with Changmin. He was his boss’ son, but his involvement with the football team was negligible.

 

Yunho hardly ever had to see him, and nor had he, since that one night.

 

It wasn’t as though they were coworkers and he had to see him every day or anything.

 

Anyway, there were plenty of other things for Yunho to keep his mind on: there was their regular training sessions, and the upcoming regional semi-finals and finals of Korea’s amateur league, which he was planning to see to scope potential talent to replace the two of his current players who were retiring after the season; there were media appearances and magazine interviews; there were team meetings and fanmeetings.

 

As a matter of fact, just when Yunho was trying very hard to fill up his mind with anything other than broad shoulders, tiny waists, and large dark eyes, there had been a fanmeeting in which he and two of his teammates had travelled to a small school in Gyeonggi-do.

 

Yunho had enjoyed the event hugely—there was something very unassuming and charming about the town, which was not small, but somehow very laidback; and something very touching about the way that the young people, boys and girls, children and adolescents and even quite a few university students, had flocked to see them and have their shorts and t-shirts and baseball caps signed. Two young men, clearly friends, of a slightly rough appearance, had been surly and quiet, but stood patiently in line to wait to meet Yunho, and the look on their faces as they had shaken Yunho’s hand had stayed with him.

 

One of them had been too shy to even look up at Yunho’s face—he had simply stared at the ground. But he had said something, just a couple of sentences, and they had shot through Yunho’s heart like an arrow.

 

‘Hyungnim,’ he had said, in a near whisper, ‘I’m…I’m not a clever person. I’m not anything, really. Then…then last month, I read in an interview…what you said, that you didn’t do great in school…Is that true?’

 

He stared at his shoes determinedly, his jaw set, and his mouth a thin line.

 

‘Yes,’ Yunho had said—quietly, since the youth seemed painfully shy—‘It’s true. I wasn’t just bad. I failed my finals. Completely.’

 

‘Oh.’

 

‘It’s not that I didn’t try. It’s just that I’m not very clever, either,’ he added. ‘And I can laugh now, but it was no laughing matter at the time, trust me.’

 

The kid managed to look up.

 

‘Look,’ Yunho added, holding his eye contact, ‘Kid. Studying is something you need to do, at least till you finish school. Okay? But keep doing things you _like_ to, too. Just do the best you can do.’

 

He got a frown, and a nod, and a flickering of hope in the young man’s eyes. And then, a reply that would stay with him until the day he died.

 

‘Thank you for telling the truth, hyungnim. It made me think I could become important, too, even if I’m not clever. I hope one day I can be like you.’

 

The lump in Yunho’s throat did not leave until he was alone in his shower that night, when he let himself cry. For the kids who felt like they were nothing, because he had been one of them, too.

 

And it was from _that_ encounter that Yunho had had an idea.

 

He wasn’t quite sure how to present it, yet, but the idea was fairly simple: an outreach program, in which the professional league football players would work with school-age students—not very once in a while as a media-grabbing special event, but consistently, as part of a sustained effort to engage with the community. And although it had taken a middle-schooler from Gyeonggi to remind him, Yunho could imagine that there were plenty of kids in Seoul who would share his sentiments. There were too many kids in Seoul who needed something to give them hope, a sense of belonging, and maybe even a sense of a better future. They would start small, of course, but surely, it was worth a try.

 

This was more or less word-for-word what he blurted in his meeting with Shim Sr on the matter.

 

Shim Sr responded with a contemplative look, his fingers steepled on the desk, frowning slightly.

 

Manager Shim was a good man, but a cautious one: Yunho had sorted of expected this response.

 

What he had not expected was a soft voice from the door, behind him, saying, ‘I would fully support this proposal, Father.’

 

Yunho’s mouth went dry.

 

He was almost certain that his soul left his body.

 

‘Oh—Changmin. Good timing. Yunho, you’ve met my son, Changmin…? Well, unbeknownst to me, the board has actually brought him on to work in the team’s public relations.’

 

Yunho turned around in slow motion. He was met with Shim Changmin’s smiling face and unsmiling mismatched eyes.

 

‘Look, as you say, son. It’s a nice idea and I guess it’s worth a shot. Yunho, Changmin, consider this your first chance to work together.’


	11. No Other

It was half time in the semis and neither team had scored yet.

 

This was no great surprise—the entire game could very well continue with neither of them winning a point—but not ideal.

 

Mokpo was exactly one point behind in the tournament, and they only needed one goal to win it. And, on average, they were bigger and stronger than the city boys. The trouble was that the city boys were playing kind of _uncivilised._ One had nearly taken Hyukjae’s eye out and run off without giving him a backward glance. Donghae was really hoping he’d get the chance to show them what was what in the second half.

 

‘These kids,’ he ground out as they were hustled off the field, ‘don’t play right. I mean fuck.’

 

‘Donghae…is that my cousin in the stands?’

 

Donghae stopped and stared across the field.

 

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes it is.’

 

‘But… _why_?’

 

‘Uhh, I gave him tickets.’

 

Hyukjae turned to him and gave him a look of disbelief.

 

‘Y’know,’ said Donghae, feeling awkward all of a sudden, ‘as a thank you for taking care of my knee.’

 

Hyukjae raised an eyebrow. ‘Wow. Really? Just cause, uh, he hates sport.’

 

‘He does?’ Wow. Awkward. ‘But…but he’s a physiotherapist.’

 

‘Well, I guess maybe not. I mean, he’s here, after all. Anyway, let’s go win this shit.’

 

 

 

In the end, Mokpo did win. Swept up in the celebrations, Donghae didn’t get the chance to look for Ryeowook after the game, but it left him feeling warm to know that he’d been there.

 

 

 

One week later, with just 2 weeks until tryouts for the professional league, and 4 weeks to the regional final, Donghae tripped over the ball and inverted his ankle.

 

It was a rookie error, and it was his left leg _again_ , and he was so annoyed with himself he could hardly speak as he used Hyukjae’s shoulder to limp his way to the stands.

 

‘Call my cousin,’ said Hyukjae.

 

‘He doesn’t work on Saturdays.’

 

‘No, but he lives a block away, dopey,’ said Hyukjae, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll call him _for_ you if you’re too embarrassed. Talk about accident prone.’

 

Without missing a beat, he pulled out his phone.

 

‘Ryeowookie? Hey, it’s Hyukjae...Look, Hae just hurt himself again at practice. You know that oval a block from your place? That’s where we practice, so if you’re home…Yeah, can you come fix him? What? No, I don’t think so. Just a crazy bastard. Throws himself around the field like it’s life or death out there. No, his ankle. Yeah, I’ve got him sitting down. No, we don’t have any. Alright, thanks.’

 

Hae could only hear Hyukjae’s half of the conversation, but even the incoherent hum of Ryeowook’s voice on the other end of the line made his pulse quicken.

 

‘He’s coming,’ said Hyukjae, hanging up. ‘I’ll get you your jacket. Stay there.’

 

Donghae watched as Hyukjae raced to the edge of the playing field and came back with his jacket. ‘Right. Stay warm. He’ll be here in five. I’ll be out there.’


	12. No Other (II)

Ryeowook vaulted the perimeter of the park and broke into a run as soon as he saw Hae.

 

It was the first time Hae had ever seen him in jeans.

 

They were tight jeans.

 

So tight that Hae kind of forgot about his ankle and tried to stand up to greet Ryeowook as he drew close, which had awkward and unexpectedly intimate results as Hae made a garbled noise and crumpled. He caught himself on Ryeowook’s shoulders at the same time as Ryeowook caught him around the waist.

 

They were so close that if they blinked, their eyelashes would have tangled.

 

‘Lee Donghae.’ Ryeowook’s voice was low and terse. Donghae could feel it reverberating through his shoulders. No ‘ssi’, this time, either. He liked that. He was liking the unwitting intimacy of Ryeowook’s hands on his sides, too. ‘Your ankle…’

 

‘I forgot,’ Donghae explained lamely.

 

Ryeowook sighed in exasperation and bowed his head, his fringe brushing Donghae’s nose. He pushed Donghae back down onto the bench with the air of an aunt scolding a disobedient child. Shrugging off his backpack, he knelt down in front of him, and unlacedDonghae’s left shoe.

 

‘How did you know it’s the left one?’ Donghae asked, confused.

 

‘Are…are you…I just watched you fall over trying to greet me.’ Ryeowook shook his head disapprovingly, one hand wrapped around Donghae’s calf, supporting his leg as he pulled off the shoe. He pulled off the sock, too, so focused on his assessment of the ankle that he didn’t look up when Donghae winced. Supporting Donghae’s leg with one strong hand, he reached into his backpack with the other, pulling out a range of gauze, tape and ointments before coming up with an icepack, which he wordlessly strapped to his ankle.

 

Donghae stared at the assortment of medical equipment on the ground. ‘Is that…did you…’

 

‘Hyukjae-hyung only said you’d hurt yourself. I imagined the worst.’

 

‘Oh.’

 

‘I know how you play now,’ Ryeowook continued, making what sounded like a conscious effort to smooth his voice out. ‘Congratulations on your win, by the way. You’re completely…I’m surprised you don’t get injured more often. Honestly…you _could_ be more careful.’ He glanced up through his hair, his expression exasperated, but thawing quickly as their eyes met.‘But…you looked happy. It was kind ofinspiring.’

 

‘Thanks,’ said Donghae, meekly.

 

Ryeowook reddened and stood up, self-consciously rubbing his hands together. ‘Um, there’s no swelling. So I think your ankle will be completely fine. We’ve got ice straight on it and if there’s no swelling or pain for six hours then you’ll be good to go back on the field. But no weight on the ankle for at least thirty minutes, please.’

 

‘Can I ask you a favour, then?’

 

Ryeowook gave him a curious look. ‘Of course.’

 

Donghae smiled and reached out for Ryeowook’s hand.

 

Ryeowook bit his lip.

 

Donghae tried not to feel smug. Turning Ryeowook’s hand over, he placed a couple of thousand-won notes in the centre of his palm. ‘Can you get me a hot chocolate? And anything you want.’

 

The changes in Ryeowook’s facial expression were minute but priceless. Eventually, he just turned and walked away to the vending machine without saying anything at all. Donghae propped his chin on his hands and watched him go.

 

Ryeowook should wear tight jeans all the time.

 

When Ryeowook came back, he had canned hot chocolate in one hand and coffee in the other. He sat down next to Hae and handed him the drink. Donghae took it, and even though the sensation of Ryeowook’s long, elegant fingers brushing against his own was completely expected, he still felt the electrical impulse race up his arms and accelerate his heartbeat.

 

He wondered if Ryeowook could hear it.

 

‘So,’ he said, turning the can upside down and shaking it a few times to make sure no chocolate would stick on the bottom, ‘how’s your PhD application coming along?’

 

Ryeowook had been about to sip his coffee, but now he stopped, the edge of the can pressing into his lower lip. He cast Donghae a sidelong glance before taking a mouthful, then rested the warm beverage on his knee. ‘I’ve been accepted, actually,’ he said. ‘I start in a fortnight. I’m surprised you remembered.’

 

‘Congratulations! That’s awesome!’ Hae said, and Ryeowook seemed infected by his enthusiasm, glancing at him with an excited little grin.

 

‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ he said. ‘The only annoying thing is that because physiotherapy is so hands-on, I’ll probably have to stop working.’

 

‘You need you-time,’ Donghae agreed. ‘I guess if you’ve got to leave the clinic, then you’ve got to. They’ll want you back as soon as you’re done, anyway.’ He sipped the chocolate, enjoying the sensation of the hot sweet liquid warming him from the inside out. ‘It sucks for me, though, if you’re leaving in just two weeks. That’s when my tryouts are, man. What will I do without you? What if my leg falls off?’

 

That earned him another little eye crinkle, and Ryeowook shook his head in mock-exasperation, his smooth, shiny hair falling into his eyes. ‘When are your finals?’

 

‘A month away.’

 

‘I’ll tell you what, Donghae-ssi. Most of my patients will be fine to work with pretty much any therapist. You, on the other hand, are both a difficult client and an athlete with highly specific requirements, and it would be irresponsible of me as a medical practitioner to make any of my co-workers endure your complaining. So I promise I’ll see you through to the end of the season. The start of semester is pretty relaxed anyway. Sound fair?’

 

Donghae tried to pretend to be offended, but this derpy grin kept trying to take over his face. ‘Sounds fair. Thanks, Ryeowook-ssi.’


	13. Our Game

Every now and then, Yunho had this one intrusive thought:

 

 _God hates me_.

 

It probably wasn’t true. Yunho wasn’t even sure that he believed in God anymore. He was running out of reasons to think that there was a compassionate higher power watching over him.

 

The opposite, though…something watching over him that was amused by his discomfiture…That was seeming increasingly likely.

 

He watched, with a measure of detachment, as the ring of his canned drink broke off in his hand.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised by this small misfortune.

 

Few things were surprising him anymore.

 

Several weeks had passed since Murphy’s Law had truly outdone itself by bringing Shim Changmin out of a memory of a private hotel room encounter and dropping him smack bang in the middle of his professional life. Ever since, Yunho had felt strangely numb.

 

So far, thankfully, he hadn’t had to see Changmin too often.

 

The other man was busy learning the ropes, and adjusting to his new role.

 

After their initial meeting in Shim Sr’s office, they had left the room together. In parting, Changmin had, with great civility, asked for Yunho’s understanding and patience regarding his recent suggestion for an outreach program. He said that he would like to have a better understanding of the legalities and financial situation of the team before they sat down to discuss the matter.

 

Yunho had readily assented. He’d assured Changmin that he should take his time and get a feel for how things worked.

 

‘Contact me whenever things slow down and you have the time,’ he had said. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

 

So the ball was in Changmin’s court now, and apart from passing each other in the corridor sometimes, they hadn’t really had to interact.

 

It was a small mercy, but Yunho was grateful.

 

And as he had begun to adjust to this new numbness, he was starting to think that there might just be the faintest whisker of a possibility of a hope that he could develop and maintain a professional relationship with Shim Changmin, no matter how tall and charismatic and sexually memorable he might be.

 

Changmin had not even tried to talk to him about the weather yet, much less broach the subject of their tete-a-tete—Perhaps he was ashamed of it? No matter. If Changmin didn’t want to talk about it, then Yunho certainly wasn’t going to try and bring it up.

 

Indeed, as long as it was never mentioned again, Yunho thought he could probably seal the vault on it, and they could move on and behave like coworkers.

 

He was strong enough for that.

 

 

He put these thoughts back in the box as Coach came back to sit beside him on the bench. Dipping his head in greeting to the assorted individuals in Coach’s entourage, all of whom had some sort of say or involvement in the day’s event, Yunho placed the useless, unopenable drink down by his feet and, with a concerted effort, returned his attention to his immediate surroundings.

 

It was the day of the tryouts for the Seoul team, and even three years down the track, it still gave Yunho this feeling of nervous excitement. Almost a hundred of the best and brightest young footballers in Korea were fanning out in groups across the club oval, getting ready for the group warm-ups before the tryouts began in earnest.

 

They were a pretty energetic bunch, this year, with a lot of potential.

 

Yunho scanned them, idly, his gaze coming to rest on a pair who must either be friends from before the tryouts or very, _very_ quick to get comfortable with one another. One of them was a big, solid guy, and the other skinny, with dyed red hair. The big one had been lying on the ground, stretching his glutes—Yunho watched with amusement as the skinny one sat on the big one’s chest, his knees pinning down the big guy’s arms, and laughing hysterically at the other’s frustrated attempts to get free.

 

He thought he recognised them from a recent semi-final. Mokpo players, maybe?

 

For a moment, as he watched the big one yelling ineffectively at his lanky friend, Yunho was slightly envious. They were so young, and so carefree; dealing with their energy and nerves by playfully tormenting each other. Yunho had been like that too, once, back in Gwangju, when he’d been that awkward, soccer-obsessed, academically-challenged teenager. But, well, really, it just made him want to be _out on the field_ , _with_ them, not back here trying to pick and choose who to bring up for their shot at a career as a professional athlete. His place was with them—not with these…these _suits_ (Coach excepted).

 

But of course, that was _exactly_ why he was making the choice to be here, among the suits. These guys were all former athletes turned managers, or sport management majors, or whatever else they’d been to get into positions where they picked and chose the best and brightest rising stars in Korean football. Their place was off the field. Out of all of the observers, only Yunho knew what it was like out on the field. Only Yunho knew, because he was the team captain, and it was his responsibility to know each and every man on his team: their strengths, their weaknesses, their motivations, and their peculiarities.

 

Yunho was here today because he was the only one who knew what the team needed _for their game_. He was the one who was making a study not of the statistics of the players, but of the _people_.

 

He let his eyes roam as the tryouts continued, but the boys from Mokpo—yes, definitely Mokpo, or at least the big one; even his single-word shouts were laden thick with dialect—held his attention.

 

They were split up for the first half of the day, and, technically speaking, they performed well in their individual assessments. But it was in the mock game that the memories of the semi-final came flooding back to Yunho, because the two had a kind of unspoken connection that took ‘teamwork’ to a whole new level. The big one was strong and powerful, the lanky one fast and agile, and they used their strengths to complement each other in a way that Yunho had honestly never seen two players do before. Not to the exclusion of their mock team-members, by any means, but their connection bordered on telepathic.

 

At the end of the day, Yunho made a case for bringing them on, together. Out of the suits, only two made even the slightest protest. Which was weird, because Yunho had dealt with the selection team before, and fighting and player statistics were just about the only things that seemed to get them excited: yet the opportunity to fight arose, and they let it go, with grudging nods and murmurs of acceptance.

 

That afternoon, he was buoyed a little by the sense of having made at least _one_ good decision in recent history.

 

But naturally, just as he was leaving, Changmin was stepping out of his car in the parking lot outside: suit and tie and sunglasses and impeccable hair.

 

He gave Yunho a full-lipped smile and said 'Jung' as they passed each other, and Yunho wished like fuck he hadn't stopped and turned and stared as Changmin's majestic outline disappeared into the building, the glass doors sliding closed to leave Yunho staring hopelessly at his own reflection.

 

_Get a grip, Jung._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have revised my needy note. But I would love to know how y'all are feeling about this story...I'm overly invested ^^;;


	14. Heartquake

Donghae had left the tryouts feeling pretty good about the whole thing, really. Optimistic, even.

 

And astonishingly enough, his optimism was justified when he and Hyukjae received letters of selection from the Korea League soccer selection board the following week.

 

So the first thing Donghae said to Ryeowook when he walked in for their last appointment before finals was, ‘I’m looking for a place to live.’

 

Ryeowook gave him a blank look. ‘Did Hyukjae kick you out for complaining?’

 

Donghae huffed, paralysed by indignation, and Ryeowook patted him on the head and took his jacket, hanging it on the back of the door.

 

‘No,’ he said, ‘ _I got in_.’

 

It took a moment for it to sink in. Then, ‘Well done, Donghae-ssi,’ followed by a gentle smile and a half-handshake, half-hug kind of thing. It was a very _Ryeowook_ kind of response: graceful and understated, but above all sincere. Donghae was starting to get used to that. Unlike Donghae, Ryeowook simply wasn’t a reactive person. When he wasn’t teasing him, his responses were very slow and subtle, but always heartfelt. And Ryeowook valued dedication and hard work above all else, so ‘well done’ was pretty much the highest compliment he could possibly have received. He felt warm and fuzzy inside.

 

He returned the half-hug wholeheartedly. ‘It’s thanks to you, you know,’ he said, and didn’t let go quite as quickly as he should have.

 

Ryeowook pulled away, shaking his head, his little half-smile of denial on his lips. ‘You did all the hard work, Donghae-ssi. But I’m so glad it paid off. Then again, I don’t think there was much of a chance you wouldn’t be selected. Even I could see that you play from here,’ he said, placing his hand over his heart. Then he looked embarrassed, and tried to cover it up by telling Donghae to get on the massage table while he went to get some more towels, although there were already plenty there.

 

Donghae decided just to leave the finals tickets on Ryeowook’s desk while he was out of the room, on the clipboard with Donghae’s file. He wrote ‘In thanks’ and drew a smiley face on the envelope in red pen as an afterthought, just so he wouldn’t miss them.

 

Ryeowook was pleased about his progress. Both of Donghae’s knees were stronger, and Ryeowook added a bunch of ankle exercises to his repertoire ‘just in case, but also because we’re going to turn you into a superhuman soccer god’. Ryeowook was less impressed by the fact that Donghae’s hips were still tight. As he rolled over onto his front and mentally steeled himself against inappropriate-thoughts-that-might-occur-in-massage, Donghae wondered privately whether his body was somehow doing it on purpose as an excuse to get Ryeowook to put his hands on him.

 

‘Are you really quitting the practice?’ he asked towards the end of the massage, the face-hole of the table muffling his speech slightly.

 

‘You can sit up now.’

 

He sat up. ‘Are you really leaving the practice?’

 

‘I am. I gave notice a few weeks ago. Today’s it. You’re it: my last client here.’

 

Donghae bit at a fingernail absent-mindedly. ‘Does that mean the end of client-practitioner boundaries?’

 

‘Hmm?’

 

‘Well, two things, I guess. One: finishing up a job and starting a PhD is cause for celebration, and I never could find that bar you recommended, so if you’ll be my tour guide, the soju’s on me.’

 

Ryeowook smiled. ‘Okay. What’s the other thing?’

 

‘I’ll ask you when we’re there.’

 

Ryeowook made a face. ‘Sounds ominous.’

 

‘It’s not. It’s work-related. But I’m hungry.’

 

 

 

The bar _was_ nice. The food and drink was cheap and the view of the park was kind of cool in the thickening, slightly smoggy twilight. Donghae could get used to Seoul. Especially with company like this. They’d had dinner – good, simple jjigae – and were halfway through their second bottle of soju, although realistically, Donghae had had maybe half a bottle. Ryeowook had somewhat unexpected drinking prowess, and was looking completely unaffected. Smooth and polished as ever. Donghae kind of wanted to ruffle his hair or something. Although maybe that was just the alcohol talking.

 

As he poured himself a glass of water, Ryeowook leaned forward over the table towards him and steepled his fingers together. ‘You should ask me the other thing now.’

 

‘Oh yeah. That.’ This wasn’t going to come out polished. But it was an awkward question anyway, he supposed, so maybe it was for the best that he was galvanised by alcohol. ‘Well…I know you’re going to be busy.’ _Let’s try that again, Hae._ ‘With school and stuff.’ _Better._ ‘But I was kind of hoping that maybe you wouldn’t mind…maybe keeping on with me. You know. Because if I do my leg in after going pro…you know. Not, like, full-time or anything. But maybe sometimes. If you wouldn’t mind doing those strength and flexibility test-y things or whatever. I mean, I don’t know. You’re the professional. But I want you to keep working on…for me.’  
  


Ryeowook laughed and took out his wallet, leaning over the table to tuck a card into Donghae's chest pocket. ‘If you ever hurt yourself again, yes, call me. I was terrified of leaving you to your own devices, actually,’ he said. It was the first earnestly flirtatious thing he’d ever done, and it was a really good thing Donghae was sitting down, because his legs had turned to jelly. He could feel his ears going red and opened and closed his mouth a few times before Ryeowook had the grace to carry on the conversation.

 

‘Tell me what a pro soccer player does with his time, Donghae-ssi.’

 

‘I…don’t actually know yet.’ Donghae shuffled in his seat. ‘Hyukkie and me, we’ve still got to play out our contract with Mokpo, and so we’re going to meet some of the team – the captain, mainly, and anyone else who can make it – for lunch sometime soon, but nothing else until after finals. I guess we’ll practice a lot.’

 

Ryeowook poured him another shot of soju, his fingertips curled under an imaginary sleeve in the traditional gesture of deference. ‘You might end up modelling in your spare time, too,’ he said, looking amused. ‘About half of the Seoul team seems to.’

 

Donghae made a face, taking the bottle and pouring the last shot tall for Ryeowook. ‘Don’t think so. I don’t want to be on billboards.’

 

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Hyukjae, on the other hand…’

 

Donghae snorted. ‘Yep. He’d love it.’

 

They relaxed into easy conversation about the many curiosities of Hyukjae. They’d known him for different halves of their lives; Ryeowook remembered him as a friend of early childhood, and Donghae had known him after his father’s work had moved the family to Mokpo, where he and Hyukjae met in third grade. (‘I called him a monkey-face, and he said I looked like a fish, and we were friends for life.’) Donghae got the bill, and they went and sat in the park across the road because Donghae wanted to look at the fountain. Somehow, the conversation extended to Donghae’s family and his life growing up: how Donghae cut off some of Hyukjae’s hair as a joke, but did such a dodgy job he had to shave it all off, so Donghae shaved his own too because he felt bad, but nearly cut his own ear off in the process; how he fell out of a third storey window when Hyukjae dared him to climb on the roof at middle school; how they’d cheat on tests by writing the answers on their underwear and go to the toilet six or seven times an exam in their final year of high school. By the time he’d finished the last story, he realised that Ryeowook was staring at him. He must have been talking for fifteen minutes solid.

 

‘Um, sorry,’ he said, feeling his ears go red again. ‘This must be really boring. I never talk enough till I talk too much…so you can always tell me, you know, to shut up. I won’t be offended.’

 

Ryeowook shook his head and smiled. ‘Donghae-ssi.’

 

‘Yeah?’

 

‘Never stop talking saturi.’

 

‘Don’t worry. I don’t think I could speak proper if I tried.’

 

Ryeowook seemed satisfied by this answer. ‘Good.’

 

It transpired that Ryeowook didn’t trust Hae to find his own way home (‘And it’s on the way to mine, anyway.’), so they walked back together. It wasn’t as far as Hae had thought – barely a ten minute walk, bathed in the sulphur glow of golden streetlights. They stopped in the little letterbox alcove at the front of Hae’s building, shoulder to shoulder, and Ryeowook took in a breath like he was going to say something, but the words never came.

 

‘Come in,’ said Hae, turning to face him. ‘For tea or something.’

 

‘You really are a country boy, Donghae-ssi,’ he said, and this time Donghae was sure he wasn’t imagining the affection in his tone. ‘Inviting a stranger into your home. I should go.’

 

‘You’re not a stranger,’ Donghae protested, and because he didn’t move when Ryeowook took a step forward, to go past him, they just ended up standing too close together.

 

They were around the same height. Ryeowook was just a little bit shorter, his fringe tickling Donghae’s nose again, his head turned slightly to the side, staring at the ground.

 

After a moment, Donghae realised Ryeowook’s hands were trembling, and accordingly softened his tone.

 

‘Ryeowook-ah,’ he murmured, and Ryeowook finally looked at him; and Donghae saw two things in his eyes, clear as day: fear and doubt. But he could see his own reflection looking back at him in Ryeowook’s dark, dark eyes, and the look he could see on his own face surprised him.

_Oh. Shit. Ryeowook-ah, I think I love you._

 

‘Don’t,’ said Ryeowook, his honeyed voice low and heavy, cracking like crème brulee. ‘Please don’t.’

 

‘I won’t,’ said Donghae, without any idea what he wouldn’t, just every determination not to. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t. ‘I won’t. It’s okay.’

 

Great, now _his_ hands were shaking. He held them up so Ryeowook could see; felt himself smiling ruefully.

 

Ryeowook gave a little huff of half-laughter.

 

When Donghae dropped his hands back to his sides, he felt Ryeowook’s fingers brush against the knuckles of his right hand. Very, very shyly, they curled together. And it was enough. _More_ than enough.

 

'Hae, I bought – whoa.'


	15. Heartquake (II)

_Hyukjae._

 

Ryeowook jerked away from Hae as though scalded. It took only milliseconds for him to slip out from between Hae's body and the wall, escaping by quite literally shoving Hyuk out of the way, barrelling past like a man-sized tornado.

 

  
Hyukjae just stood there looking stunned for a second before holding up the shopping bag he was carrying.

 

  
'Alcohol.'

 

 

 

  
  
Two and a half bottles of soju later, Hyukjae was sufficiently inebriated to broach the subject.

 

  
'Dude, I...I want you to know I'm fine with it.'

 

  
Donghae thought he had a pretty good idea of what 'it' was, but he wasn’t completely sure. He stared at his friend questioningly.

 

  
'I mean, I've known you since third grade, man. Never even seen you looking at any girl like you were keen, so...what I mean is...'m not surprised. Guess I knew you'd meet someone someday.' He paused and stared into the bottom of his glass, his eyes narrowed, as though suspicious that the receptacle had consumed the soju for him. 'What I mean is, it's cool. And I'm cool with it. I'm glad you've, y'know, met someone you like. And. I hope I didn't, like, fuck up a delicate balance there.'

 

  
Donghae smiled and shrugged. 'S'alright. I'll give him time to calm down and sort it out tomorrow.'

 

  
Hyukjae nodded and refilled their glasses.

 

  
They drank again, and the elixir of truth drew a little more comment from Hyukjae. 'Like I said, known you since third grade, so...Not surprised about you, man, but Ryeowook...he's always had girlfriends, y'know? One for about a year. The next one, she was around for like...three years. Like, serious stuff. Like, he was talking about getting _married_. Y'know.'

 

  
Donghae shook his head. He didn't know. He realised he didn't know much about Ryeowook at all. Just that he was gentle and kind and, as of this evening, probably frightened and angry too.

 

He sighed and flopped onto the floor.

 

  
Hyukjae watched his actions before he continued. 'You're not the kind of person I would've thought he'd be into, man. No offense. Not just 'cause you're a dude, either. Just...He's...he hates sport. And he's really...'

 

  
'Smart?'

 

  
'Well, like...book smart, yeah. But also, like, really serious.'

 

'Hey.' Donghae jabbed him. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

 

'Not like that. I just...He never does anything by halves, you know? So I was surprised to see that... _that_. Back there, with you. I mean, he tries hard and he cares about doing things right, even though his parents give him a hard time; never tell him that he's good enough; always telling him what he has to do next, to be better. So he was always...trying to make things _right_. For everyone but himself. Even as a little kid. It was...hard to watch.'

 

  
Donghae wasn't sure what to do with this information. He had already suspected Ryeowook of perfectionism, but it was one thing to suspect, and another to be told. He also wasn't quite sure how to respond to the whole long-term-girlfriends-in-the-past thing, but it sure explained why Ryeowook had literally _run away_ before.

 

Clearly, it wasn't as easy for Ryeowook to deal with being liked by Donghae as it was for Donghae to like him.

 

Donghae filed that away. He would do well to remember it.

 

Technically, he also had the opportunity to ask Hyukjae for details right here and now for further information about Ryeowook’s past. He wanted to, too. He was curious. But on consideration, it seemed too invasive: he felt like should pay Ryeowook the respect of asking him personally, not a third party.

 

‘Okay.’

 

‘That’s it? Just okay?’

 

‘Sure. It’s gonna be okay. I like him, so I just gotta wait for him to like me back.’

 

Hyukjae sighed and flopped down onto his side, resting his head on Donghae’s stomach and patting his chest fondly. ‘I reckon he already does, ya big moron. That’s why I – I’m just surprised, y’know? Not that it’s a bad thing or anything, just unexpected. Sometimes the best things are things you don’t expect. You know. I know you. You’ll…yeah. It could be good. Weird…but good. Oh wow actually I feel really weird about that. Dude, you want to date my cousin. Does that mean we’re, like, related? Because you’re like my brother, so doesn’t that mean you guys are basically related? Aish, no, I can’t – this is giving me a headache.’

 

Hyukjae was quiet for a bit. Then he sat straight up abruptly, flinging his arms out and shouting ‘AHA!’

 

Donghae’s soul nearly left his body. He smacked Hyukjae over the back of the head. ‘What the fuck, dude?’

 

‘That’s what the tickets were about!’

 

‘Oh my god,’ Donghae moaned, flopping back onto the floor.

 

‘Hey, is he coming to the finals then, too? Hahaha oh this is too fucking cute; I think I’m gonna hurl. He hates sport but he comes to watch you. Oh my god, Hae. Oh my god…Hae, are you blushing? Hahaha brilliant. Alright. Okay. Photo for posterity.’

 

_Click._

 

‘Hyukjae, you fucking…’

 

Astonishingly, the only thing broken in the ensuing battle was a lamp.

 

Donghae lost.


	16. Sweat

Changmin started using the football club’s gym.

 

Yunho knew this because he also used the football club’s gym. Six days a week, in fact. For three days of endurance training and three days of weight training, which were alternated and randomly changed as needed, like when his condition plateaued, or if it was starting to look like he was overtraining.

 

Yunho liked the physicality of exercising. He found it cathartic, and the tangible, measurable reality of physical development was deeply satisfying. And one of the best things about being a professional athlete was that as long as he managed his progress effectively, he more or less got to manage his own schedule, deciding what to do and when to do it.

 

For instance, today the morning had been taken up by a mock game, and the afternoon by meetings, and then he’d had a light meal and a karaoke session with a couple of friends, but it didn’t really matter: he could still come back to the club after hours for his workout, which was exactly what he had done.

 

He particularly enjoyed evening workouts. Usually, there was no one in the building except for himself and the two security guards who monitored the building outside of business hours.

 

Tonight, though, Lady Luck was apparently mad at him.

 

Yunho loved night workouts. He liked the fact that he had the entire gym to himself. It was like having his own little kingdom of self-development—and no sound but his own heartbeat and the pounding bass of his workout music.

 

Tonight was a cardio night, and he was using one of the stationary bikes. The gym's walls were all mirrored, allowing Yunho both to watch his form and appreciate the stillness and the solitude as he surveyed his silent kingdom.

 

He had just finished his warm-up and started his cardio session in earnest...

 

...when who should walk through the doors but Shim Changmin.

 

He arrived with one of Yunho’s players, actually. The enigmatic Choi Siwon, with whom Changmin had displayed an almost instantaneous bond of friendship.

 

Yunho had been completely baffled by their seemingly excessive intimacy until one of his midfielders, Kim Kibum, had pointed out that they were actually friends from university. Siwon was the same age as Yunho, which meant there was a two-year age gap, but Yunho supposed that was no reason for seonbae and hubae ties to end after graduation. Not to mention they were both the only sons of wealthy, upper-class families. They moved in the same circles. Probably went to the same parties. No wonder they seemed to have plenty in common and were comfortable with one another—still, Yunho felt a prickle of discomfort as they came into the gym in their unnecessarily expensive designer workout clothes, bantering (he couldn't _hear_ , but he could tell).

 

They were a far cry from Yunho, sweating in his holey old t-shirt and thinning trackpants; they looked more like they had come off a catwalk than for exercise, their lean contours accentuated by their skintight compression gear; hair immaculately styled...Yunho couldn’t help but feel the faintest embers of irrational resentment stirring within him, replaced by a vague embarrassment and guilt when Siwon, ever the gentleman, smiled and waved at him as they made eye contact in the mirror.

 

Yunho smiled and nodded in response.

 

He noticed that Changmin pointedly did _not_ look his way.

 

He clamped his eyes back to the speedometer and began listening more intently to his music.

 

Only moments later, though, Siwon left: towel and drink bottle in one hand, and the other holding his phone up to his ear and his pace indicating a measure of urgency. He did not fail to nod a good night in Yunho’s direction—and he did not come back.

 

_Then there were two._

 

Once or twice during the remainder of his workout, Yunho thought he might have felt Changmin watching him. But he lacked the courage to check, and on the occasions when he did glance up at the mirrors, Changmin seemed entirely focussed on his weights training.

 

He had extraordinarily good form.

 

It would appear that his broad shoulders were an achievement, rather than a genetic blessing.

 

This was somehow annoying.

 

Irritation and admiration warred within Yunho, coming together to form a whole new unnameable emotion.

 

He forced himself to keep his eyes off Changmin for the remainder of the session, but somehow, even after he had dismounted, wiped off the bike, and spent a long time stretching and steadying his heart rate, his physical exertions did not offer the same sense of catharsis as usual.

 

He left for the locker rooms as Changmin moved to the rowing machines, his shoulders bunching and rippling under the thin sheet of synthetic he was trying to pass off as a shirt.

 

Yunho was determined not to change his pace because of the other man’s presence.

 

He would not be _driven out_. He wasn’t going to rush himself just because Changmin was there.

 

Still, a ten minute shower would be short enough for him to get out without speaking to him, right?

 

Wrong.

 

Lady Luck was having it her way.

 

As Yunho stepped out of the shower in a cloud of steam, Changmin’s naked back was the first thing he clapped eyes on.


	17. Sweat (II)

‘You left me tied up in a hotel room,’ said Yunho’s face, coldly, flatly, and without consulting him first.

 

Changmin’s response, if there was any, was hidden from view, because the clouds of steam from Yunho’s hot shower had flooded into the open space of the change rooms, obscuring the mirror.

 

Part of Yunho instantly wished he could take the words back, but his desire for an explanation won out, and he left the words hanging between them, as laden as the swirling water vapour.

 

This was it: Changmin’s opportunity to apologise, or at the very least to justify his actions.

 

He turned around to face Yunho, and though it was a challenge, Yunho kept his eyes off of Changmin’s torso, training them to his face.

 

Changmin was damp. His long fringe covered one eye in a smooth sweep of near-black. The other eye locked with Yunho’s gaze, and, to Yunho’s astonishment, Changmin _smiled_.

 

‘I did, didn’t I,’ he said, calmly—a statement, not a question.

 

_He’s not even sorry._

Yunho bristled.

 

He took a step forward, glaring at Changmin, but the other man’s arrogant smirk didn’t falter.

 

‘It was worth it, wasn’t it? You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself.’

 

Galvanised by spite, Yunho told a lie. It was a reflex: the words were out of his mouth before they’d registered with his brain.

 

‘I’ve had better,’ he said.

 

This was followed with silence, mostly so that Yunho could recover from his own surprise, but it also added dramatic effect.

 

For a moment, a chink seemed to appear in Changmin’s armour. Displeasure crept into his expression, turning his smirk into a sneer.

 

He recovered quickly, though.

 

‘What did you expect? A foot massage? A proposal?’

 

Emboldened, Yunho stepped forward again. ‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ he retorted. ‘A “good bye” would have been fine. Or maybe “I’ll be your co-worker soon—see you in a couple of weeks”?’

 

There was a flash in Changmin’s eyes that indicated _that_ one had struck home. He tried to hold Yunho’s stare, but after a long silence in which Yunho did not yield, broke eye contact to stare at the ground.

 

Then, he said something unexpected.

 

‘It was a mistake.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘I said _it was a mistake_.’

 

Yunho was so stunned that Changmin had the upper hand back.

 

‘I knew it was stupid. I knew. But you…’

 

The silence was blistering.

 

Yunho moved another step forward.

 

They were within touching distance now.

 

Changmin looked up again, through the thin veil of his dark, damp hair. ‘I don’t mean to be crude,’ he said, ‘but you are the most fuckable man I’ve ever seen.’

 

The words hit Yunho like a bolt of lightning.

 

‘The most…’

 

‘ _You heard me_ ,’ Changmin hissed, voice low. ‘It nearly killed me leaving you there like that. But I didn’t have, you know, anything ready, and then there was the _job_ , too, and I…’

 

Yunho could feel Changmin’s breath, warm on his bare chest, where Changmin’s gaze was fixed.

 

His mouth started moving without consulting him again. He wished it would stop doing that. It was digging him into a hole he might not be able to get out of.

 

‘Do you have those things now?’

 

Changmin’s eyes jerked upwards, flooded with surprise and question marks. They were too clever: dark, dark eyes. Yunho knew, then, that he was walking into a trap, but he just couldn't seem to muster up the common sense to walk away.

 

‘I—’

 

‘Just answer the question.’

 

Yunho moved a little closer again, pushing his thigh in between Changmin’s legs.

 

The sensible part of his subconscious was screaming that this was a bad idea.

 

The devil inside, though, was telling him that there was only one way to get Shim Changmin out of his system, and that was to stop _wondering_ , to make the unknown known, because _surely_ no fantasy could live up to reality.

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Then…why don’t we just…get this out of our systems?’

 

Changmin lifted one shapely eyebrow. His smirk regained impetus. ‘That might help,’ he replied, as though making a concession. ‘Let me get to my locker.’

 

Heart pounding, Yunho stepped aside, and watched as Changmin, long and lean and smooth and contoured, stepped away to a locker on the other side of the space, his back rippling as he opened the door and rummaged through the contents of the locker.

 

He removed lubricant and a box of condoms and placed them in full view on the benches that ran under the lockers before shifting his attention to the removal of his compression tights.

 

Yunho, his pride smarting at being the one to have made the suggestion, sniped at him with a ‘You take those everywhere you go?’, but Changmin just responded with a Look, and it gave him gooseflesh.

 

He leaned against the bench, trying to gain some measure of composure as Changmin peeled the nylon away from his endless legs.

 

Changmin was an Adonis. His proportions were perfect. His musculature was impeccable. His dick was…well.

 

Yunho swallowed.

 

So much for reality never living up to fantasy.

 

Changmin, now appearing relaxed an in his element, rubbered up; his fingers, quick and agile, slathering a layer of clear gel lubricant over the top of the condom as his cock began to harden.

 

He glanced up towards Yunho, smiling wickedly, and beckoned politely with his free hand.

 

‘Captain,’ he said, his voice velvety and unforgiveably seductive, ‘Could you come here, please?’


	18. Sweat (III)

Yunho, feeling contrary, shook his head.

 

‘No. I think you should come to me, this time.’

 

He was honestly surprised when Changmin actually _did_ ; crossing the space between them in a few long strides. He only stopped when their noses were mere centimetres apart—and zero distance was left between Yunho’s towel, and the slippery wet tip of Changmin’s dick.

 

Yunho choked back a strange mewling sound that was straining to get out of his throat.

 

He succeeded at keeping the noise down.

 

His boner, though, was another story.

 

Changmin was apparently highly attuned to his arousal, and, without breaking eye contact, reached down to tug the rough knot out of his towel. But it was trapped between the edge of the counter and Yunho’s backside, and did not fall away, instead brushing against his thighs in loose swathes.

 

Changmin’s hands took over the small of his back, pulling him forward none-too-gently.

 

Yunho’s hands ended up braced on Changmin’s chest.

 

It was firmer than anticipated.

 

The towel tumbled to the floor with a soft thud, and the whimper escaped.

 

As Yunho tried to pull back again, Changmin reached down between them once more with his right hand.

 

His palm was warm and smooth and frictionless against the sensitive surface of Yunho’s cock; his touches soft—almost painfully unsatisfying.

 

‘There. I came to you,’ he said, his voice low. ‘You’re right—I _was_ too…controlling, last time. You’re the same age as Choi Siwon, right? You’re my hyung. I should really be showing more respect. I should do what you tell me to. I _will—_ I’ll do anything you like. What next, hyungnim?’

 

The words were formal and polite— _so how could they possibly accommodate that amount of insolence_?

 

Yunho forced out a growl in place of a whimper, but they both knew whose hands were in charge right now, and they definitely weren’t his.

 

‘Get on with it,’ he muttered, tersely.

 

Changmin gave him a look of false concern.

 

‘Are you sure, hyungnim? Are you sure this is what you want?’

 

The remark was every bit as inflammatory as intended, but Yunho had nothing to say.

 

Eventually, he just decided to let his gaze return to Changmin’s, and reached down between them himself, to wet his fingertips in the excessive slick of lube on Changmin’s cock, before reaching around to his own ass and sliding the cool, slippery surface of his index finger into himself.

 

Holding fast to Changmin’s irritatingly self-possessed dark eyes, he let his lips part to give way for a sigh, and let his eyelashes flutter.

 

If Changmin was going to insist on playing games, Yunho might as well enjoy himself too. After all, what could be more frustrating for Changmin than not being able to control his pleasure?

 

It worked, too. It was only the slightest shift in his facial expression, but Changmin’s jaw hardened perceptibly. And the way his dick responded was unmistakeable.

 

Yunho allowed himself to moan, long and wanton. But reaching like this wasn’t going to cut it.

 

He turned around and leaned with his left arm on the countertop, bending over just enough to give himself room to slide his finger in a little deeper, groaning once more.

 

The steam was beginning to clear from the mirror, and he watched as Changmin stared fixedly downwards, hypnotised, his own lips slightly parted.

 

He licked at them nervously, his tongue bright and wet against the pale red of his full mouth.

 

Yunho could feel the tip of Changmin's cock nudge his glute, and he smirked, the smug expression springing to his face unbidden.

 

‘I’m going to need a little while before you go trying to put _that_ in there,’ he murmured, a little surprised by his own insouciance.

 

Changmin went a shade of pink that he found fairly satisfying, the colour creeping across his high cheekbones. A vaguely desperate look was creeping into his eyes, one of his hands moving down over his chiselled torso of its own accord—he wanted to touch himself: Yunho could see it. He _wanted_. Yunho was filling him with _want_ , and it was the salve his wounded pride needed, making up for last time.

 

He worked a second finger into himself and began to push them in and out.

 

 A third.

 

Changmin continued to watch until he could clearly watch no more.

 

‘Move your hand, hyung,’ he said, the kinship term falling with unnatural ease from his tongue. ‘Let me.’

 

‘Get more lube first,’ Yunho ordered, both out of necessity and an immature desire to give a command.

 

Changmin did as he was asked, meek—or at least subdued—by the intensity of his arousal.

 

He began with a single finger, careful but exacting as he intruded on Yunho’s body. He was good, too; pushing _just so_ , and using his full lips to trace a line down the back of Yunho’s neck; softly biting his shoulder; encroaching relentlessly, to take over Yunho’s personal space—literally invading his body—like some kind of master strategist, reading every minute change in Yunho’s body before he even understood it himself, until he was in three fingers, folded neatly together, down to the knuckle, and Yunho’s body had accepted him like he belonged there.

 

Yunho, gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles, no longer had the nerve to look in the mirror.

 

This was not his first time, but somehow, it seemed a thousand times more intimate.

 

‘You can put it in now,’ he said to the sink.

 

‘I’ll be gentle,’ said Changmin.

 

That wasn’t really what Yunho was worried about, but he nodded anyway, and closed his eyes.


	19. Sweat (IV)

True to his word, Changmin was gentle.

 

Tender, even, although that might be a strange adjective for the way he held Yunho close to guide his cock between his ass cheeks. He wrapped one arm tightly around Yunho’s torso, fingers stretching up to press into his pectoral muscle; the knuckles of his other hand brushed lightly against the sensitive skin of Yunho’s glutes, then moved away as the glossy tip of his dick slid into Yunho’s asshole, pressing slowly but indomitably into him.

 

Changmin’s second hand took up residence on Yunho’s hip, his fingers curling tightly over the bones of his pelvis.

 

He breathed out a long, tortured sigh against Yunho’s neck.

 

Yunho kept his eyes closed, and focussed on each individual sensation.

 

He would never admit it aloud, or at least not to Changmin, but the hotel room incident had taught him a surprising lesson: when it came to sex, sight was secondary—perhaps less.

 

Without it, everything was…deeper. More resonant.

 

He could hear his own heartbeat, and Changmin’s laboured breath.

 

He could feel every water drop that lingered on his skin.

 

Caressing him as they fell away, under the pressures of gravity.

 

The floor tiles, cold underfoot.

 

The edge of the benchtop, sharp against his palms.

 

Changmin, his marble torso like a wall of stone at his back, and yet warm, and yielding.

 

Changmin’s dick easing inside of him: throbbing, but not moving.

 

Changmin’s cheek resting against his own wet one; the clenching of his jaw and the straining of the tendons in his neck as he forced himself to behave.

 

It was Yunho who took over, then. He was ready, and so he pushed back against Changmin’s dick, pushing back and back and back until it was on the verge of being too much. At that point, he stopped, and began to gyrate, rocking back and forth into the supporting wall of Changmin’s body, and fucking himself gently on Changmin’s ripe, ready erection.

 

Changmin’s breathing became unsteady, shaken loose from his throat only at irregular intervals, and with the greatest effort.

 

Yunho felt the compulsion to peek creeping over him. It was such a basic instinct: the desire to see. Instead, he held his nerve and distracted himself by bending a little further over and pushing his ass further back, testing to see how much more of Changmin he could fit in.

 

‘Everything’ was the answer, with the mind-numbing pleasure of a prostate massage in the process.

 

Changmin was showing remarkable self-restraint, though. As Yunho had demonstrated willingness to take control of the situation, he had withdrawn a little, to stand upright, though his hands had stayed in position on Yunho’s stomach and hip.

 

He wasn’t even making any noise. And Yunho, who was trying so desperately to keep his eyes closed and savour sensation, began to find himself craving _sound_.

 

He began to build up the pace and minimise his movements, hot and flushed and lusty, and before long was rewarded: Changmin moaned.

 

It was a long, low sound that began as a whine, and turned into a growl as Yunho changed the pace. Yunho felt Changmin’s hips began to flick forward in response, or maybe reflex; either way, it was a promise of a more vigorous fucking than Yunho could administer to himself: too much and not enough, all at once.

 

Yunho gave in and opened his eyes, seeking out Changmin’s face.

 

The younger man was so deep in concentration that it made him look almost innocent—or at least that was what Yunho thought until he met his own lust-lit eyes in the mirror, and the deviant reality of what they were doing hit home.

 

‘Shim,’ he gasped out, unable to prevent the neediness in his tone, ‘Wait a minute—wait.’

 

Changmin’s eyelashes fluttered as he tried to bring Yunho into focus.

 

‘What?’ he ground out, ‘Why?’

 

‘I want you to fuck me.’

 

Changmin stared at him, his expression uncomprehending until his gaze fell on the flat expanse of the countertop to their left. After that, he seemed to experience a moment of clarification, and became compliant. He refused to pull out, instead moving carefully _with_ Yunho as he shifted to fully rest his upper body on the bench.

 

It was cool and kind of slick against his skin.

 

‘It’s too slippery,’ he muttered against it, closing his eyes and relishing the wave of sensations that washed over him: ‘You’ll have to hold me down.’

 

Changmin grunted in response, and planted one of his large, warm hands between Yunho’s shoulder blades.

 

He was holding back. Yunho wasn’t sure _how_ he could feel the huge potential of his strength, but he could, and there was a lot of it.

 

‘Come on,’ he prompted, a note of challenge and impatience in his tone, ‘ _Fuck me_.’

 

Changmin tangled his other hand in Yunho’s hair, and _did_ , with vim and vigour—so much so that Yunho was grateful for the counter beneath him, and indeed a little concerned for its structural integrity.

 

Changmin filled him completely. Every time he drew back, it was less like being empty, and more like being _hollow_ —robbed of meaning. He began, at some point, as Changmin’s hips increased in pace, and his moans in volume, to pant out breathless pleas and encouragement, almost certain that the counter was shaking under their weight and impact, but unable to care, because he was beginning to tingle, from his scalp to his toes, his hands dropping to his ready, waiting cock, but stopping, and waiting patiently, because he couldn’t cum, _mustn’t_ cum, not before Changmin milked the ever-loving end out of his prostate, and _he was so close—right there—_ yes, _now_ he could touch himself, _now_ —only a couple of tugs; a thumb over the tip, and—

 

Stars on the insides of his eyelids as his frayed nerves snapped, and he felt so much that he felt nothing at all.

 

 

Changmin’s hand on his back; stroking, soothing; soft, meaningless noises from Changmin.

 

Both of them?

 

Mostly Changmin.

 

‘Yes,’ Yunho said, in agreement with the noises, ‘Oh, yes.’

 

He lifted his head enough to catch Changmin’s eyes in the mirror: wide, and overwhelmed with sensations, and somehow, again, innocent. Trusting.

 

Yunho looked at his own catlike, self-assured, satisfied expression, and wondered what made the difference?

 

They stayed still for a little while, catching their breath, before Changmin’s guilelessness faded away, replaced by his customary attitude of smarminess. He eased out of Yunho’s hole, and it was hard to tell if his indifference when Yunho winced was feigned or genuine. He _seemed_ more careful, after, but his eyes were hooded again, and his expression cool and still.

 

They showered separately, dressed again, and left the building together.

 

Changmin offered Yunho a ride home, which he initially refused, but the younger man insisted.

 

In the driveway of Yunho’s apartment building, they shared a long silence, but Yunho somehow didn’t know what to say, so he just patted Changmin’s shoulder amicably, said, ‘Good workout,’ and Changmin wished him a good night, and then left.

 

It would have been the perfect time to return Changmin’s clothing, but Yunho only thought of it when he switched the light on in his bedroom, and his eyes fell on the black tie, rolled up tightly on the bedside table.


	20. Club No. 1

Lunch with Captain Jung Yunho of the Seoul team was a pleasantly unpretentious affair. The managerial staff of the soccer team had sent Hyukjae and Donghae an address to a restaurant in Yongsan, and since it was so central Donghae had worried it was going to be formal, with suits and stuff, which would have sucked because he didn’t have a suit with him. In fact, he wasn’t sure he owned one at all. He went with dark jeans and a grey button-up and hoped for the best.

 

Actually, when they got there it was pretty low-key. In the sense that Jung Yunho himself was waiting for them out the front of the building,dressed in tracksuit pants, a hoody, and a beanie with cat ears.

 

This last item might have made anyone else look cute, but as Jung Yunho straightened up to his full six foot something, Donghae felt like he was in the presence of distilled manliness.

 

‘Guys,’ said Jung Yunho, ‘awesome work at tryouts. I’ve been watching your games, too. You keep playing like that and we’ll have nothing to worry about next season.’

 

He smiled at them, showing lots of straight white teeth, and it was like the sun came out. Then, moving between them, he put an arm around each of their shoulders and shepherded them into the building.

 

Hyukjae and Donghae shared an awed look over the proud swell of Yunho’s chest.

 

‘I’m really glad you could make it,’ the captain was saying. ‘I know you’ve got a lot on with the regional finals coming up, but I wanted to get to know you a little, you know? Not just “Hi guys, okay, time to train”.’

 

They took the lift to the fourth floor, and passed into a well-lit space with lots of wide timber tables and bench chairs. The only striking thing about it was the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, which boasted a view of the Yongsan government office building; everything else seemed pretty mellow, and there weren’t many other customers. Yunho strode off into the open space towards a table seating three young guys, and Donghae and Hyukjae followed.

 

‘Pay attention, kids,’ said Yunho to the table, ‘This is Donghae and Hyukjae. Donghae, Hyukjae, this is Jang Dongwoo, Lee Myungsoo, and Choi Minho. These two are older than you, okay? Be polite. But I’m still the eldest,’ he added, with a throaty laugh.

 

The one called Dongwoo stood and bowed politely, waiting for Donghae and Hyukjae to be seated before he resumed his own. Donghae wondered if maybe he was the maknae. Or maybe he was just the politest: the other two were giving Hyukjae and himself a look-over. Not hostile, exactly, but changes to the line-up of an established team were never easy. He smiled back at them, undaunted, as he took his seat, and they averted their eyes, seeming to understand the wordless warning – _don’t push me; I’ll push back_.

 

‘Our Siwon and Sungyeol-ah will be here any minute, too, so we might as well wait,’ said Yunho. ‘Just the eight of us today, but that’s most of the team, right? Some of our manager-hyungs are stopping for lunch too, but they get their own table over in the corner.’ He waved a hand in the direction of a partition board. ‘Over there. They don’t like eating with these animals.’

 

His gaze seemed to drift toward Dongwoo at this point, who just beamed innocently.

 

‘Anyway, welcome on board. Order anything. It’s on management today.’

 

There was a commotion behind them, then, at the restaurant doors, as a group of six men came in. Two were middle-aged, and had the look of ex-athletes. Probably trainers. Donghae recognised the third older guy as one of the suits who had spoken to their coach and been present at the tryouts. Obviously a big-wig.

 

The other three were all at least six feet tall, younger, and characterised by being stupidly good-looking. One of them was taller than the others, with a wide mouth, massive eyes and a long sweeping fringe. He moved with the grace of an athlete, but he couldn’t be on the team; Donghae knew this because he was wearing a suit, and from what Donghae had seen so far (to his relief) none of his teammates were big on suits. This guy was too shiny, and too clever-looking. He looked more like someone from advertising.

 

The other two Donghae recognised from billboards and the occasional TV appearance: Choi Siwon, sportsman a-la-grande, in a charcoal trench coat with his hair immaculately coiffed, and Lee Sungyeol, a rising star known for his ear-full of piercings, dressed head to toe in black. Both of them looked like they’d come straight off the set of a photoshoot.

 

He exchanged a look with Hyukjae, relieved to see his bemusement reflected in his friend’s face. When Hyukjae had moved to Mokpo, they’d mocked him for his Seoul polish, but that had rubbed off a long time ago, and now Hyukjae looked kind of like he wanted to giggle. ‘Models,’ he mouthed silently.

 

In a fit of borderline hysteria that he passed off as shyness, Donghae picked up the menu and pretended to look at the drinks as Siwon and Sungyeol stopped at their table.

 

The men in suits offered various greetings (to the team) and goodbyes (to Siwon and Sungyeol) before disappearing behind the partition.

 

Yunho, who had seemed ever so slightly subdued in the presence of the suits, seemed to bounce back a little. ‘So, how was the photoshoot?’ he asked the newcomers, and Hyukjae and Donghae hi-fived soundlessly under the table. Dongwoo, sitting to Donghae’s right, saw it happen, but made no comment, pressing his lips together in what seemed like silent amusement.

 

Donghae decided he liked Dongwoo.

 

Sungyeol shrugged disinterestedly and took the seat next to Myungsoo, leaving Siwon to sit at the other end of the table from Yunho.

 

‘You know,’ said Siwon with a shrug, ‘Calvin Klein-y,’ and Donghae was forced to slap Hyukjae on the back as he choked on his water.

 

Yunho himself looked faintly amused, but moved onto introductions without missing a beat. ‘Siwon, Sungyeol, these are our new teammates, Hyukjae and Donghae,’ and Siwon made a show of getting up again to shake their hands and welcome them with big bear hugs into the fold.

 

Hyukjae managed not to choke on anything else the whole of lunch.


	21. Andante

Donghae and Hyukjae went the oval after that, but the rain swept in at about three and then petered out to constant drizzle. So, apart from some basic ball drills for reflexes and muscle memory, they mostly sat around talking about how to approach the game, and finished up by around four thirty.

 

Jungsu, Hyukjae and the rest of the team went out for dinner.

 

Donghae stayed at the oval.

 

There was no guarantee Ryeowook would come past: he knew that.

 

The look on his face the night before had been one of terrible, gut-wrenching doubt, and especially after learning things he shouldn’t even know, Donghae didn’t want to push him. If Ryeowook hadn’t told him, Ryeowook either didn’t want to tell him or didn’t want him to know, and that was good enough for Donghae. Hell, truthfully, he didn’t want anything from him if Ryeowook didn’t want to give it; not even physiotherapy. But the oval was kind of on his way home, so he would _probably_ walk past. And if he walked past without a word, so be it. But Donghae would be there.

 

He waited in the twilight, leaning up against the bleachers nearest the roadside. The air grew whiter as mist rolled down from the mountains, and figures came and went through the cool evening – mothers taking children for walks in brightly-coloured jackets; tired men in suits hurrying home to hot food; young professionals walking their dogs – but even in the mist, even wrapped up in a jacket, wearing a beanie and with his face hidden by a giant woollen scarf, Ryeowook was unmistakable. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the ground, and Donghae felt a surge of protectiveness course through him, counteracted by the bitter knowledge that he was responsible for that fog of melancholy.

 

For a moment, he thought maybe Ryeowook wouldn’t see him in the mist.

 

For a moment, it looked as though he would simply keep on walking.

 

Then, for a moment, Ryeowook stopped and looked up, and their eyes met.

 

Donghae had no idea what to do, but he couldn’t do nothing, so he smiled, and walked out from under the shelter of the bleachers to meet him.

 

‘What are you doing out here in the rain, Lee Donghae?’

 

‘I wanted to see you.’

 

Ryeowook let out a little huff that might have been amusement or distress. Donghae wasn’t sure which, just that it escaped Ryeowook’s delicate mouth in a little puff of steam, adding to the mist.

 

‘You could have just called,’ Ryeowook retorted, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

 

Donghae could see him getting edgy. This was the fight or flight response at work, and neither of those would be good outcomes. _Back up, Hae. Play gently._ ‘You said to call you if I hurt myself,’ he replied softly, emphasising the quotation. ‘I didn’t. I just wanted to see you.’

 

Ryeowook closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath before blowing it back out through pursed lips.

 

‘You’d better come home with me,’ he said eventually.

 

A joke about country boys was on the tip of his tongue, but Donghae held back. He could see Ryeowook looking for an excuse, any excuse, to slam the brakes on, to close the gates on his heart, and even a joke told by Donghae at his own expense could be enough.

 

‘Come on. You can’t stand out here in the cold. You have a season final to play. So at least _try_ not to get hypothermia, would you?’

 

Neither of them said a word the entire time they were walking.

 

They walked abreast of each other, but from the moment they’d set out Donghae had ceded control and let Ryeowook lead.

 

Ryeowook, wrapped up in his own thoughts, didn’t even seem to notice. Shrouded in his unreadable silence, he let them into the apartment building on autopilot. He took the keys to the front door out of his pocket, but his elegant fingers refused to obey him, and after a moment he relinquished them to Donghae’s outstretched hand, looking pale.

 

Donghae unlocked the door and handed the keys back, stepping aside so Ryeowook could go in first, then followed, uttering the formal ‘Excuse me’ in his uncultivated, broad accent. It broke the silence so clumsily that he might as well have dropped a dumbbell on the floor.

 

The convention seemed to give Ryeowook something to cling to, though: his ‘Welcome’ was quiet, but he seemed comforted by the ritual. ‘I’ll – I’ll make some tea. Please, have a seat,’ he said, shrugging out of his coat.

 

Donghae did so, taking off his own jacket and hanging it over the arm of the lounge facing the kitchen before sitting down.

 

Ryeowook’s apartment was not at all what he had expected. He had imagined someplace white, very white; minimalist, maybe a little bit modern, obsessively clean. The only white thing, however, was the ceiling and the skirting boards: the walls were a bright dark blue, the floors were timber, and the couches were a patterned grey that made Donghae think of a catalogue his mother had once tried to show him about curtains. She was always going on about curtains.

 

There were bookshelves crowded with everything from books on anatomy to comics and, in pride of place, a stereo. The couches faced each other over a low coffee table. The television was over to the side, like an afterthought. And it wasn’t obsessively clean, either; a stack of dirty dishes by the sink, and a small pile of dirty laundry peeked out from the foot of the opposite end of the opposite couch; evidence of Ryeowook’s invitation being a spur of the moment decision.

 

Ryeowook, with his back to Donghae, had busied himself making tea in the kitchen. His dark mop of hair was messy; the cause, the beanie, discarded on the counter. Donghae’s gaze travelled down the nape of his neck, tracing the curve of his shoulder blades under the patterned cloth of his sweater, then quickly darted back over the room as Ryeowook turned, armed with steaming mugs.

 

Yup, the apartment was definitely not what he had expected, but more than anything, a timely reminder of how much he still had to learn about this man.

 

Suddenly feeling too warm, he pulled off his jumper.

 

It was just because it was warm inside. It had nothing to do with the back of Kim Ryeowook’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was long and shitty...Hope y'all are having a good one, or that two updates in one go make it better, or something :)


	22. Andante (II)

Ryeowook took a seat on the couch across from him, pushing a mug across the table. Donghae leaned forward to peer into it, curiosity trumping dignity, as usual.

 

Chocolate.

 

He wrapped his hands around the mug.

 

‘Thank you.’

 

Ryeowook blew on his tea, his body language tense. His shoulders were hunched, the muscles around his mouth and eyes tight, and his knuckles white. He knew Donghae was watching him, and was still refusing to meet his gaze.

 

It wasn’t his silence to break, but Donghae was going to break it anyway.

 

He believed in honesty above all else, and so he said exactly what he was thinking.

 

‘Ryeowook-ah, I don’t know what to say.’

 

He was rewarded with eye contact; albeit over the lip of the mug as Ryeowook sipped his drink.

 

It seemed like an age before the cup came down and Ryeowook replied, his eyes covered by his fringe, which was all tangled and untidy. Donghae desperately wanted to reach out, to untangle it just a little so that it would settle across Ryeowook’s forehead without falling into his big dark eyes.

 

It seemed like cruel irony that while Donghae was thinking this, Ryeowook said, ‘Last night, I…think I must have misinterpreted the situation, Donghae-ssi. I’m sorry.’

 

He ran a hand over his eyes, exactly how Donghae had been thinking to, and suddenly seemed very, very fragile.

 

Ryeowook could hesitate all he wanted. Donghae didn’t mind. But he had created this situation, and he would own it. Two things needed to be very, very clear.

 

‘Ryeowook-ah, it’s not that. You didn’t. And I’m sorry about _Hyukjae_. But I’m not _sorry_.’

 

Ryeowook went very still.

 

Donghae repeated it, just for good measure. ‘I’m not sorry.’

 

The words hung in the air. Donghae grew acutely—painfully—aware of the distance between them.

 

‘If this is just me, Ryeowook-ah, that’s okay too. Just tell me, and I swear I won’t bother you anymore. If you don’t want to do this, or even talk about it, I can just go.’

 

‘No,’ Ryeowook said quickly, his fingers tightening reflexively around his mug. He looked Donghae in the eye with his guard down for the first time that entire evening, and there was so much packed into his expression that Donghae was the one who turned away, sinking his attention into the dark, earthy, bittersweet cocoa that was not, upon consideration, very different from Ryeowook. ‘Don’t go. It’s just…Donghae-ssi, I’m…not like you.’

 

‘No,’ Donghae agreed, confused by the remark. ‘You’re you.’

 

‘What could someone like you possibly want from someone like me?’ Anger, now, and resentment.

_Someone_ like _you? There’s no one else in the world like you._ ‘I don’t want anything from you, Ryeowook. If this is just me, it’s just me. You don’t have to do anything.’

 

Ryeowook wanted to trust him. It was all over his face. He wanted to, desperately, but he was…too scared.

 

Donghae wondered what kind of lifetime of disappointments and let-downs must lie behind him to make him so cautious. That downward curve of his lips—a mouth made for smiling—was back, and it hurt him to see it. He was starting to feel like if he took this any further, he’d be doing more damage than good. Ryeowook had invited him into his home. He was honoured by that, but this was Ryeowook’s safe place, and he had no right to challenge him here. He was a locked box in a secret room.And he’d let Donghae in—into the room, at least. Donghae wasn’t about to start trying to smash the lock on the box just because he could see it.

 

He finished the chocolate and set the mug down. ‘It’s okay, Ryeowook-ah,’ he said softly. ‘I mean it. I don’t want anything. I just wanted you to know that last night…that was real.’ He rubbed his neck, floundering for words. ‘And, well, it wasn’t sophisticated. _I’m_ not sophisticated. So sorry. For that. And Hyukjae. But also not sorry. Because I meant it. I mean, I mean it.’

 

Donghae wasn’t great with words. He wanted to say more, but that was about all the words he could manage for today, so he just shrugged.

 

He looked back up, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Ryeowook still had his guard down. The storm of emotions in his eyes even seemed to have calmed a little. Then he remembered something Hyukjae had said, after a text from Ryeowook, and added, ‘Oh yeah. Good luck on your assignment, too.’

 

Ryeowook seemed to find this amusing, because his eyes smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

 

Donghae had to quell the urge to try and pin down his meaning, settling for the conventional response. ‘That’s okay.’

 

They passed another half hour with quiet, idle conversation before Donghae noticed the time and remembered it was his turn to cook.

 

‘I have to go feed Hyukjae,’ he said suddenly, because he had remembered suddenly, and after a pause, Ryeowook nodded.

 

He escorted him down to the lobby. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the lift, and the silence was deafening. Donghae pulled his jacket back on as they crossed the foyer and stopped together at the door.

 

‘Good luck in your game, Donghae-ssi,’ said Ryeowook, without turning to look at him. Once burned, twice shy, Donghae supposed. He pushed his hands into his pockets to show that he had no intention of invading Ryeowook’s personal space.

 

‘It’s the day after tomorrow, right?’

 

‘Yep. Thanks. And thanks for the chocolate. It was exactly how I like it.’

 

‘I’m glad.’

 

They put their hands out to the door handle at the same time, and Donghae pulled back, flushing. ‘Sorry.’

 

Ryeowook opened the door for him. ‘Be safe.’

 

‘I will.’

 

As he made to step through the door, Ryeowook reached out and closed his free hand gently on his sleeve, and Donghae froze. He turned his head just in time to see Ryeowook change colour and beat a wordless, hasty retreat, his head down as he powerwalked back across the lobby.

 

The door slid closed behind Hae.

 

He knew it was pointless to wonder what Ryeowook hadwanted to say, but he wondered anyway.

 

On his walk home, it started to snow.


	23. Step by step

_Jung Yunho,_

 

_Given we have not yet had an opportunity to discuss your proposed outreach program, please consider joining me_ _over lunch_ _at La Bambina_ _,_ _1pm tomorrow. I have made a reservation under my name. Please find the address attached. If there have been any changes to your availability_ _,_ _do not hesitate to let me know. Otherwise, I shall see you there._

 

_Regards,_

_Shim Changmin_

 

 

As much as it pained Yunho to admit it, he had made a genuine effort today, because he was kind of nervous.

 

It had all started yesterday evening in the locker room. He and Kibum had been the last men in there, and Yunho had asked, casually, if Kibum could recommend anywhere for overnight dry-cleaning, because he had a lunch date, and needed his pants pressed.

 

Kibum had turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised and lips pursed in an elfish expression of surprise that quickly softened into gentle amusement. ‘You don’t know how to do it yourself, hyung?’

 

Yunho shrugged and smiled sheepishly. ‘No idea.’

 

‘Ah.’ Kibum resumed packing his bag, a small smile on his face. Yunho didn’t mind this particular dongsaeng laughing at him, because in spite of his aggressive manner, Kibum was basically sweet-natured – maybe even the sweetest of the lot of them. In Kibum’s case the phrase ‘actions speak louder than words’ didn’t quite apply, because he was impossibly loud. But he was also unfailingly kind, and while his loudness might be abrasive to some, it made Yunho think of a well-meaning ahjumma. Even now, he was smirking, but there was affection hiding behind his amusement. This became obvious when Kibum glanced back up at him, still smiling, and said, ‘I can come around tomorrow morning and do it for you, if you like. I’ve got a lunch date, too, but I’m free all morning, and your place is on my way into the city anyway.’

 

And that was how he had opened the door to Kibum’s smiling face at 9 a.m. It was the ultimate contrast: bleary-eyed Yunho in his boxers and a tshirt, and Kibum, impeccably dressed in tight dark jeans and a blue and white striped tshirt, somehow balancing two coffees, a box of doughnuts, and an armload of canvas clothing sleeves.

 

He gave Yunho a wide smile and handed him one of the coffees. Yunho, blinded by the brightness of his grin, retreated into the shadows of his flat, but Kibum was already all the way in, setting down his armload of stuff on the dining table, crossing the room and throwing open the curtains.

 

‘Annyeong! I brought some things,’ he said, still beaming, and not looking at all phased by the fact that he turned back to find Yunho inhaling half a doughnut. ‘And I think you should wear these.’

 

 

 

So here he was, sitting in La Bambina and staring at Changmin’s email, trying to process its contents and meaning while he waited for the other man to arrive, in a black shirt that belonged to Kibum. He thought it was too tight, but Kibum had assured him that it looked good, and, after one more doughnut’s worth of bribery, Yunho had surrendered to the fashionista’s vision for him.

 

The shirt was tucked into grey slacks that Kibum had ‘borrowed’ from Minho and pressed overnight on Yunho’s behalf. These were also quite tight, particularly in the crotch region, but Yunho had felt it might be indelicate to complain about that, and decided to endure it. And although they were plenty tight already, they were cinched with a black leather belt ‘to keep the nerves in’, as Kibum had said with a grin. (Apart from that, he had made no comment on the nature of Yunho’s outing, nor asked for details, which Yunho appreciated. For someone who spoke so loudly, Kibum was quite selective about what he actually said.)

 

The coat was Yunho’s own, but that had been left in the restaurant’s cloakroom, leaving Yunho’s chest quite prominently on display. He’d had to undo the top button to prevent Kibum's shirt from exploding open.

 

It was safe, he thought, fiddling with the unfamiliar shirt collar, to take the email at face value. There was no apparent subtext, nor did there seem to be anything to be read between the lines.

 

Well, after all, from the start (‘ _Wanna do it?’_ ) Changmin had shown that he was quite a… _direct_ person. Still, he was a puzzle. More and more, Yunho felt like there were two faces to Shim Changmin: on the one hand, a snappy, chic, well-dressed, young, privileged, smoking hot executive; on the other, however hard he might pretend otherwise, a man who was collared and trapped by desires that left him feeling uneasy—desires that, by their very nature, he could not keep to himself. And despite the directness of Changmin’s advances, Yunho could not shake the feeling that Changmin was not at ease with his own actions. His professional life was all about performance, and it was as though Changmin just picked up those skills and transferred them into his personal life, with every _appearance_ of brazen confidence, but no…no _substance_. His self-assurance in each rendezvous so far had been like the facades they used on a movie set—one push, one deep breath, and they would topple...revealing what, Yunho could only guess at.

 

He tried to put these thoughts aside.

 

This was a business meeting. There was a lot more riding on this than the possibility of continuing these extraordinary sexual encounters with Shim Changmin. This was Yunho’s chance to convince the sceptical executive of the worth of outreach to public schools.

 

Suspicious of the nepotism and wary of business affairs in general, Yunho was slightly irritated by the way Shim Jr had dived straight into salesmanship and encouraged over half of the team into modelling contracts with major brands. Yunho was of the opinion that athletes were people, not products. Changmin had gotten to know all of them by name, and maybe shared a meal at least with most, but that was a part of the job, but he didn't seem terribly interested in much more than their advertising potential. Which, Yunho supposed, demonstrated a sort of single-mindedness and analytical ability that was admirable, in its own way, but he still hadn't liked it. And although the young Shim had quickly developed a pragmatic sort of camaraderie with the players who best suited his professional interests (Siwon and Sungyeol, specifically), the professional relationship between him and Yunho remained one of lukewarm civility.

 

But Changmin was in PR, and he did his job well. For that, Yunho couldn’t fault him. The difference was in ideology—so what was important, now, was for Yunho to make his case in such a way as Changmin would be able to see practical, if not fiscal, benefits.

 

At ten past one, Shim Changmin made his entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, friends!! I've been sick. More soon.


	24. Step by step (II)

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘There was a problem with some merchandising.’

 

‘That’s fine. I only just got here.’

 

Yunho set his phone aside, and rose to shake Changmin’s proffered hand. It was a good handshake—dry, firm, and uncompromising. The kind of handshake that won trust and signed deals.

 

They sat down together, and, as though drawn magnetically by Changmin’s arrival, a waiter bearing menus and a bottle of sparkling water arrived, pouring them each a glass before setting it down on the table.

 

‘Can I get you anything to begin with, sirs?’

 

‘Not yet, thank you,’ said Changmin, coolly, and the waiter bowed and retreated.

 

‘Thank you for the invitation, Changmin-ssi,’ said Yunho, testing the waters of formality. ‘I appreciate your willingness to discuss my proposal.’

 

Changmin waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get onto it, Captain Jung.’

 

His gaze flicked down to Yunho’s chest, and it took Yunho a concerted effort not to reach up and pull the cloth over his décolletage. Particularly when Changmin’s gaze lingered.

 

‘Please,’ Yunho managed, ‘Hyung will do fine.’

 

‘If you like,’ Changmin replied. ‘Shall we look at the menus? I don’t know if you have any other appointments today, and the service is reasonably prompt, but…’

 

Yunho flipped open the leather-bound menu and scanned the pages, but the options were many and alien. The only thing that sounded familiar was spaghetti, and he didn’t have much confidence about keeping that off of Kibum’s shirt. Still, determined to be excited rather than daunted by the novelty of the experience, he made his way through the pages before settling on steak.

 

Changmin nodded approvingly and beckoned the waiter back to their table to place both Yunho’s order, plus a glass of pinot noir, and his own (a risotto with a glass of white), and the chef’s recommendations for entrée and dessert.

 

This ritual complete, he turned back to Yunho, leaning forward and steepling his fingers on the table.

 

‘So. Your grand plan. Please, tell me a little more.’

 

Yunho cleared his throat. Changmin’s large dark eyes were intense—and intent on him. It was a familiar expression for all the wrong reasons.

 

‘It’s only an idea at this stage,’ he began, slowly, ‘but…well…in simplest terms, I feel sure that it would be a win-win situation if the team were to begin a public campaign of outreach to get students of all school ages to engage with sport.’

 

A small, thoughtful frown was forming between Changmin’s impeccably maintained eyebrows, his gaze shifting from _intense_ to genuinely interested.

 

Taking confidence from this, Yunho continued. ‘For decades now, students have been told that there is only one thing in life, and that is their school grades. They get told that nothing else means anything. They lose the opportunity to play games, and have fun, which is terrible, because physical activity is an important outlet, and it can even become a perfectly good career. This is all something I say from personal experience, too. I mean, I was terrible at school. Football was the only thing I was any good at, and through a series of random chances and good luck, I’ve made it to where I am today. I also think that there is something to be said for investing in the sporting talent of the future—which would be the other side of the outreach program. On the one hand, it would be a way for the team to engage with the community, and give back. And on the other, we can find kids with talent, and maybe offer them support and training. And I think…I think it would be good if we could focus on certain areas—the kinds of places that are poor, or disadvantaged in some way.’

 

He was warming to the topic now.

 

‘In the long run, it would be cool if this could become a national program, maybe, some day. From where I’m standing, it would be a great way to get people involved in the sport, and bring in new talent, but it would also be a way of giving kids hope, and reminding them to have fun, and remember the things that matter—teamwork and friendship. You know.’

 

Changmin was watching him closely, his eyes slightly narrowed.

 

He sat back as Yunho finished his pitch, and the waiter arrived bearing entrées.

 

Breaking his bread roll with his fingers to dip it in his soup, he said: ‘Why do you want to do it, Yunho?’

 

Yunho was slightly thrown by the question. ‘I guess I just think it would be really cool if there was a way for us to be more…more _practically_ involved in community outreach. Not…not just slapping our faces on billboards.’

 

Changmin huffed—it might have been laughter, or he might have been offended; Yunho couldn’t be sure. His expression gave nothing away.

 

After a moment, he said, ‘I suppose they may seem superficial to you. But those billboards are how I can make your proposal financially viable, Yunho-ssi.’

 

‘Oh.’ Chastened, Yunho picked up his bread roll, and admitted to it, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

 

Another huff—this time definitely amusement.

 

‘Well, you are an ideas man, after all. Logistics are another matter entirely. That’s what they employ _me_ for. Though since we're on the subject, I'd like to put _you_ on a few more billboards, actually. Your face is very small.’

 

Yunho decided to concentrate on his soup, feeling slightly chastened by the reminder that advertising need not be entirely morally bankrupt.

 

Changmin, likewise, fell silent, and it was not until their mains arrived that he said: ‘Look, it’s a great idea, Yunho-ssi. Give me a clearer idea of what you’re imagining, and I’ll take a closer look at how it can be done. As you say, it’s a good cause—and it would certainly be good for public image.’


	25. Catch Me

_‘Good for public image.’_

 

The same could not be said for what followed their lunch, and he _didn’t_ mean dessert. (Although that chocolate squishy thing was gooood.)

 

Yunho wasn’t even totally sure how it happened.

 

They left the restaurant together, then stopped in the street, under an awning, while Changmin made three separate phone calls to deal with his afternoon obligations, cancelling some and rearranging others.

 

Yunho also wasn’t sure how he had been so sure that he knew where their afternoon was going. Maybe it was just pure optimism, or blind luck. It couldn’t be some sort of unspoken connection—if he started indulging himself in thoughts like that, he’d just become delusional. It was enough, really, that they had even had those former random trysts—

 

Yet sure enough, without glancing back in Yunho’s direction—just somehow knowing or believing he would follow—Changmin turned the corner into the alleyway, and Yunho followed him into a deep, dark part of Jongno that could only be found by those who already knew it was there.

 

To be fair, it was not the _only_ gay-friendly love hotel in Seoul, but it _was_ the most secure. This was not the type of establishment where high-profile politicians would be discovered ‘slipping’ into compromising positions. This was a place where you left all your digital equipment at the door before you signed into your room.

 

The room was sumptuous instead of garish, too.

 

Tasteful.

 

Changmin had ordered a bottle of wine by room service, and then come over to the lounge area to lie down on the carpet at Yunho’s feet, which was both unexpected and dangerously appealing.

 

The carpet was very white and very soft and a bit fluffy, and Changmin looked like some weird fusion of heaven and hell, lying there in his immaculate charcoal suit. He stared up at Yunho with large, thoughtful eyes, and Yunho wondered for the thousandth time that day what Shim Changmin was thinking.

 

There was a knock at the door, and at Changmin’s polite yet imperious ‘Come in’, a young man entered. Silent and discreet, he laid out strawberries, wine, and wine glasses on the side table before disappearing once more, and kindly putting out a ‘do not disturb’ sign on their behalf.

 

‘Are you a regular here, then?’ asked Yunho, only maybe a quarter joking.

 

Changmin’s long fringe fell away from his face. He looked different without it veiling his eyebrows, one of which quirked, along with the corner of his mouth, at the question.

 

‘Why, Yunho-ssi? Are you...by any chance...jealous?’

 

Even though he knew Changmin was mocking him, Yunho considered this seriously before responding.

 

‘A little,’ he said.

 

Changmin’s calm expression rippled a little. He sat up, a bit of white fluff stuck in his hair, and looked as though he might want to say something. After a moment, though, he seemed to change his mind, and instead got to his feet and padded over to the table to pour two very full glasses of wine.

 

In the same way Yunho did not know why he had followed Changmin, he now got to his feet, and, for no reason he could articulate, went to stand behind Changmin and pull the jacket gently from the other man’s shoulders.

 

'I feel like I'm always chasing you,' he said, quietly.

 

Changmin, facing forward, allowed this. He then leaned back a little, giving Yunho access to the buttons of his shirt but, growing impatient with his blind fumbling, eventually pushed him away to finish the job himself. The heavy gaze he fixed on Yunho spoke volumes—basically screamed at him that he should do the same.

 

'Maybe you should try to catch me, then.'

 

Yunho, overcome with adolescent lust (which seemed to be the norm when it came to Changmin), then began to have difficulty with his _own_ buttons, and Changmin, becoming impatient, did the unthinkable—took Yunho’s shirtfront in fistfuls and _pulled_. It was a glimpse of the restrained strength that Yunho had still had but a taste of, and it was terrifyingly delicious.

 

Buttons flew in all directions, and, caught up in the moment, Yunho completely forgot that the shirt was not his own.

 

Instead, his hands searched out the flat planes of Changmin’s hips, and he closed his fingers and heaved, lifting Changmin bodily up onto the table, for which he got a growl of protest, followed by a hungry moan.

 

Wine slopped onto the tabletop, which was heavily varnished for this and other (no doubt more sinister) reasons, filling the air with a sudden heady whorl of rich, thick grape.

 

Common sense, grabbing at the flapping reins of Yunho’s libido, caught on just long enough to convince him to move these and the wine bottle to the sideboard before he turned back to grab at Changmin, who had scrambled back down onto his feet and was quickly regaining his balance.

 

As Yunho collided with Changmin's long, lean body, skin on skin, they began to vie with each other. It was almost like slow dancing, but less forgiving and more symmetrical, with more weight, more hands, and more grappling. It was both primal and strangely sensuous—they were testing each other, and there was no question that it was, on a psychological level, a game that bordered on a fight.

 

But it was also, physically, a romance. It was intimate in a way that their sex was not, or at least had yet to be: their bodies pushing against each other; Yunho’s left palm now flat against Changmin’s right, now sliding up his arm to tangle in his hair and push him over, in a heap, onto the couch; the impact as Changmin twisted their arms together and toppled them both to the floor, straddling Yunho triumphantly—and one final tussle, in which they both ended up on their sides, fingers and legs and arms tangled, sinking into a kiss that shook Yunho to his core, and made him feel like he had never truly kissed anyone before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is doing things I was not expecting. So, uh, I'm just gonna...go with it, I guess?


	26. Catch Me (II)

It was never going to be a fair match.

 

Yunho might be almost the same height as Changmin, and, if they were fighters, weigh in in an entirely different class—a heavyweight to Changmin’s welterweight-or-less—but the fact remained that it was Changmin who could control himself, and so it was Changmin who had the psychological advantage, because as soon as their lips met, Yunho knew that he was going to lose.

 

The fingers of Changmin’s roofward, free hand trailed lazily up his spine, and over his side, and onto his chest. Those fingers tightened, deftly and cruelly, over his nipple, and he drew in a sharp breath that made Changmin smile against his mouth before pushing harder against him.

 

Being in his mouth was like being dragged under a riptide, and, like anyone eho could swim only enough to save their own life, Yunho responded by submitting, knowing that it was the only way he would ever escape without drowning.

 

He let Changmin push him onto his back on the ridiculous (but soft) fluffy carpet; let him undo their belts in the narrow space between their bodies; let him knead at his chest with reflexive hands like the paws of a kitten not quite past nursing, complete with the sharp bite of the tiny overhang of his fingernails; let him sink his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck.

 

It _was_ like drowning. Everything he could see, hear, and touch was Changmin. Changmin’s scent, on the rolled up tie that never seemed to leave Yunho’s bedside table, was fading as the weeks passed; now, Yunho relived all its richness and pungency, trying to store a little of it in each gasping inhalation as Changmin’s teeth and tongue wreaked sensual, rhythmic havoc on his throat.

 

In a particularly intense moment, his own fingers sinking into the thick pads of Changmin’s pectoral muscle, he said things he didn’t intend to. ‘Never—know what you’re thinking,’ he’d gasped out. ‘When will you let me in, Changmin?’

 

At the breathless words, Changmin drew away, and sat back up on his knees, his lips parted, eyes hooded, and hair sweeping across his face, glorifying his wide, high cheekbones.

 

‘Let you in?’ he echoed, curiously.

 

He was straddling Yunho’s waist already, and now, without warning, he shifted backwards, his powerful glutes lined up just so, so that Yunho’s cock, fighting against the confines of his pants, rested between them.

 

‘Funny. That was _exactly_ what I had in mind.’

 

And not at all what Yunho had meant, but he _knew_ that.

 

He rolled his hips, as punctuation, and that was that—Yunho could hold out no longer. Not in _these_ pants.

 

He made a muffled sound that almost but did not quite express his agony, and Changmin laughed, breathlessly, sliding further over the bulge in Yunho’s pants. Down, down he went; all the way down, thoughtfully undoing the fly of the trousers and taking them with him, along with Yunho’s underwear, wresting them free of his feet before flinging them off into some unknown corner of the room.

 

Yunho tipped his head back, sighing with relief. The trousers had definitely been too tight; his dick recognised freedom, and revelled in it, standing to salute the warm air of the hotel room.

 

Well, no.

 

Mostly Changmin.

 

…All Changmin.

 

‘Good,’ said Changmin, fantastically ambiguous, and leaned over to the drawers in the coffee table (one of many spots around the room where ‘necessities’ were thoughtfully provided).

 

Yunho had correctly inferred _what_ Changmin was getting, but he was a little surprised by where he put it—rolling it down over Yunho’s dick, direct and unhesitating, then leaning back to admire his handiwork.

 

‘Good,’ he said again, eyes flicking up to Yunho’s face. He licked his lips, looking vaguely predatory in the soft hotel room lights.

 

Yunho made a strangled noise and tried to rise, but Changmin smirked, one hand on Yunho’s chest, and pushed him back down.

 

‘Let me get undressed first, would you?’ he said.

 

When Yunho looked closely, for a moment, he thought Changmin’s hands might be trembling over the button of his fly.

 

But the moment was over quickly, and he couldn’t tell for sure.

 

Maybe he really _was_ letting him in, in his own way. Maybe that was what this _meant_ to him.

 

Did Yunho dare hope for that?

 

He decided not to try to decide, letting himself be distracted by the physical pleasures of the moment, instead: the slow reveal of the thick, coarse tangle of Changmin’s pubic hair, and the reddening length of his cock; the endless length of his pale legs, covered in coarse hair and rough against Yunho’s skin as he resumed a straddling position over his thighs—

 

He did not object when Yunho’s hands roughly gripped his hamstrings. Instead, he leaned into the touch, and allowed Yunho to support his weight while he slid his fingers, dripping with lubricant, inside himself.

 

His head tilted back, the long fringe falling away from his face, and his lips parting with a sigh, every ripple in his majestic musculature thrown into relief by the lighting—he looked so good it almost _hurt_ Yunho to gaze up at him, but nor could he look away. He just stared in silent wonderment, and went on staring, right up until Changmin lowered his slicked-up asshole to the equally-entranced tip of Yunho’s cock, and the tight muscle began to loosen cautiously around him.

 

 _Then,_ the sensations were too much, and Yunho closed his eyes and tipped his own head back and retreated into the other dimension of _feeling_ that Changmin had accidentally shown him (ironically, by stealing his sight in the first place).

 

Changmin was wet and warm and, in response to Yunho’s determined silence stoicism, he also became _wanton_. It was strangely satisfying, for Yunho: to lie back and let Changmin do exactly what he wanted; to feel the other man’s body ease and tighten around him, while all he did was focus, focus, _focus_ on the way it _felt_ —and it didn’t feel selfish, either, because there was urgency in Changmin’s quiet moaning and the way that the muscles of his ass convulsed and pulsated, but there was also something in the timbre of his voice that suggested a kind of relief.

 

After Changmin had choked out a sound that should have had a song all to itself, and cum all over Yunho’s stomach, Yunho allowed his eyelids to flutter open, and let himself go, staring straight into Changmin’s eyes, which had deepened and transformed into constellations of fucked-out bliss.

 

They lay together on the carpet for a while, then; not bothering to clean up because the bleariness was too insurmountable, and Changmin fell asleep.

 

He looked younger when he was sleeping.

 

Yunho took the liberty of covering the other man’s hand with his own, and lay there in contented post-coital silence, drifting in and out of consciousness.

 

Later on, while Changmin was in the shower, he had a rare moment of clarity in which he thought maybe he understood something.

 

It was only because Yunho had been willing to close his eyes that Changmin had been able to let go.

 

He might not have let him in, exactly, but he’d let him get closer.


	27. Mid-season

It had snowed every single night since Donghae had last seen Ryeowook.

 

It was too early in the season for snow, but it snowed anyway, even the night before amateur finals, which caused no end of panic amongst the coaches and grounds staff.

 

Thankfully, it was only half an inch of white, powdery stuff that barely lasted the night. The weather cleared up something magnificent in honour of the final game of the season, and the Mokpo team responded well to the sunlight. Their competitor attacked early, scoring one in the first half, but they flagged after the break, and Mokpo scored three goals in the last fifteen minutes: one by Donghae, one by Hyukjae, and one by their leggy captain Jungsu.

 

Winning the season was a pretty incredible way to end their amateur careers. They went out for dinner and drinks afterwards, to celebrate. At the end of the game, Jung Yunho emerged from the players’ box to invade the locker rooms and congratulate them, flanked by Choi Minho and a chic youth introduced as Kim Kibum, another member of the Seoul team. Yunho took it upon himself to take the entire Mokpo team to one of his favourite drinking establishments in the city, buying them at least three rounds before apologising profusely that he had an interview in the morning and had to depart. After that, Hyukjae and Donghae divided their time between their old Mokpo teammates and their new Seoul teammates. Kibum was the single most gregarious and engaging person Donghae had ever seen: in spite of a biting, sarcastic sense of humour, he seemed to have a gift for socialising, and was sharing phone numbers with at least six of the Mokpo boys before the night was out. With Kibum around, Choi Minho also came out of his shell a little—apparently, his stand-offishness and surliness were just by-products of shyness.

 

It wasn’t until Hyukjae and Donghae were walking home, having caught the last train back, that it was quiet enough for private congratulations.

 

‘We done good,’ said Hyukjae, looking smug and satisfied. ‘This is awesome. We done _so_ good.’

 

Donghae nodded his agreement. ‘I think the word you’re after is daebak, man. We are daebak.’

 

They high-fived and then high-tenned in the middle of the road, startling a passing cyclist, before they continued on their merry way.

 

‘Glad you’re okay man. No injuries today!’ Typical Hyukjae. He had the good sense not to bring up the fact that he hadn’t seen Ryeowook at the game, but while trying to conceal what he actually wanted to say, successfully alluded to it in the cruellest way possible.

 

Donghae tried not to think about it.

 

 

 

The day after, Donghae was too hungover to do anything and too bored to stay at home. He considered putting on exercise gear and going for a run, but then, when he stood up, motivated to do it, he had to sit down again very quickly as a life-sized kick-drum began pounding in his head.

 

It was almost four, anyway. Still light outside, but a kind of pale, silky grey to go with the horrible weather (which was back with a vengeance), and Donghae didn’t trust Seoul not to go all midnight on him as soon as he set foot outside.

 

He compromised by putting on jeans and a huge duffle coat and going for a walk.

 

It was by total coincidence he ended up walking to the oval.

 

He stood up the back of the stands and stared out into the silent, empty field. The greyness of the twilight somehow made the grass seem greener. Behind the bleachers, scattered around the perimeter, were huge old oak trees, framing the space, and because of the silent fog and all of the green, Donghae felt like he was in some timeless, insulated soccer kingdom. He could have been anywhere. He could have been back on Mokpo, although the weather would probably be better there. He leaned back against the stand framework, crossing one leg over the other and folding his arms over his chest, and, closing his eyes, allowed himself to drift to someplace, sometime in the future, dreaming of the World Cup...

 

He was so absorbed in his little white soccer kingdom that he didn't notice anyone approach, so even though Ryeowook spoke softly, it still scared the life out of him.

 

'I just got off the phone with Hyukjae. He said I might find you here.'

 

'Shit,' said Hae, taken so much by surprise that he tripped over himself as he tried to uncross his legs and stand up straight. It didn’t really work in his favour. He grabbed at the wall to regain his balance, but the damage was done. Damn, and he might've looked cool, too, leaning against the wall like that. Until he went and fell over himself.

 

‘Ryeowook-ah.’ _Brilliant, Donghae. You’re a fucking wordsmith._ ‘Um, hi.’

 

‘Hi,’ said Ryeowook, and then grabbed the lapels of his duffle coat and kissed him.

 

That was unexpected.

 

Donghae had thought that he would make the first move, for one thing, but no, Ryeowook kissed _him_ first, and here they were, in the stands of a deserted soccer field, kissing in the misty late afternoon.

 

It was shy. It was simple. Donghae thought it was a little bit perfect, and let his hands fall naturally into place on Ryeowook’s sides as he kissed him back, his movements slow and careful. He didn’t pull him closer. He barely even breathed. He just held him close enough to keep him there.

 

Ryeowook’s lips were warm and soft and hesitant. Donghae wasn’t really surprised. Ryeowook often seemed unsure: of his intellectual abilities, his physical abilities, his intuitive understanding of where to touch and what to do...Remembering the feeling of the other man's hands against his skin, stroking and probing his aching muscles, Donghae moved his cautious hands to take Ryeowook into his arms, drawing him closer, careful to allow just the smallest of spaces to remain between their bodies. He was rewarded with a little moan before Ryeowook drew back, his eyes downcast and his expression shuttered, although he kept his fingers locked tightly under Donghae’s lapels.  


'I've been wanting to do that for a while now,' he said softly, refusing to meet Donghae's eyes.

 

'I've been wanting you to do that to me for a while too.’

 

Ryeowook buried his face in Donghae's shoulder. His hair, tousled and unruly, curled against Donghae’s neck and brushed his jawline. He smelled like mint. And lemon. Donghae took the time to store the smell in his memory and learn the curve of Ryeowook's back under his palms. It was like he'd been carved for his hands. And, in spite of the layers he was wearing, Donghae could feel the unmistakable ripple of lean muscle that belied Ryeowook’s hatred of sport.

 

After a little while, he drew back, cheeks pink (with cold or embarrassment, Donghae couldn't be sure). He looked flustered and nervous, but there was a new…determination about him, somehow. 'Um, actually,’ he said, ‘I thought maybe we could go eat something.  Celebrating you this time. Congratulations on winning.'

 

Those three words told Donghae that Ryeowook had been there yesterday, and he was flooded by things he wanted to say. He didn’t, though. It was enough to know that Ryeowook had been there watching him play.

 

He also wanted to say something soft, something Ryeowook would find reassuring, because the guy had just kissed him, and that was kind of a big deal, but nothing came to mind, and Ryeowook had this look on his face like ‘it never happened. We’re just friends going to dinner’, so he left it alone and nodded instead. The urge to say 'I'm buying' came and went; Ryeowook would probably resist him if he verbalised it. Instead, he went with 'You decide where. I'm not from around here.'

 

Which, you know, _thank you Captain Obvious_ , but Ryeowook just gave him the little smile and nodded. 'I know a place close by.'

 

He stepped back a little and let go of Donghae's lapels, smoothing them unnecessarily.

 

Donghae really hoped it was just an excuse to touch his chest.

 

'Yeah? Great. Let's go; I'm starving.'


	28. Mid-season (II)

He was irrationally pleased by the number of times Ryeowook took his arm to guide him on the way there. Every single time it was like Ryeowook was confiding in him. He was quiet most of the time, apart from the occasional low rumble of laughter at Donghae's lame jokes and pointless observations, but every little touch spoke volumes. Especially the one where they arrived in front of the building and Ryeowook announced they'd arrived with a hand on Hae's shoulder instead of words.

 

'It's nothing fancy. Just good Korean food. My friend Yesung runs it.'

 

Ryeowook said it with a certain measured nonchalance, but the way he mentioned ‘Yesung' implied more than just any old 'friend', and even Donghae could tell that Ryeowook bringing him here was actually kind of a big deal. Probably he was going to get scoped out. Probably Yesung was an important person to Ryeowook. Probably a hyung, which meant this was sort of like meeting the in-laws. That was okay though. In fact, that was awesome.

 

That was almost an invitation into Ryeowook's life.

 

Almost.

 

He tossed out a 'Ladies first' joke to break his tension, which earned him a sour look and a punch in the gut before Ryeowook shoved him unceremoniously through door.

 

He pushed a little hard, though, and Donghae, grinning like an idiot, ended up almost colliding with a tall guy with a fluffy kind of bowl cut on the other side of the door.

 

'Can I help you?'

 

Donghae flailed helplessly for a second before Ryeowook stepped past him and gave the fluffy guy a hug. 'Hyung. Table for two?'

 

The tall guy’s expression went from bewildered to smiling in milliseconds. 'Wookie! Sure thing, man.'

 

It clicked.

 

Donghae stuck out a hand. 'Hi. I'm Donghae.'

 

Yesung looked him up and down. Frowned. Looked him up and down again. Donghae was just beginning to wonder if people didn't shake hands in Seoul when Yesung's face split into a grin and he grabbed his hand in a firm, friendly response.

 

'From the Mokpo team, right? Lee Donghae? Wookie, shit man, you never told me you knew one of the players. A pleasure, Lee-ssi.'

 

'Just Donghae is fine.'

 

'Good job winning yesterday. I was backing Daejeon, but fair’s fair. Come on through.'

 

The restaurant was small but the space well-used; it was split level, left open plan at the front for two massive ten-person tables. A timber partition separated this from the raised second tier, and shelving for shoes flanked the entry.

 

As they were taking off their shoes, the bell by the door jingled, and a large party began to file in. Yesung excused himself, telling them to pick any table, and he'd be back shortly.

 

Ryeowook led Donghae up the three steps into a paper-walled corridor. Front of house was brightly lit, with a friendly, social atmosphere, but back here was quiet: private without being claustrophobic. Hae followed Ryeowook into a cubicle to find the dark rosewood stain on the walls dimly lit by the glow of a hanging lantern. A cushioned bench bordered the space, and the table was set into the floor.

 

Ryeowook settled in on one side of the table with practiced ease, and Donghae took a seat facing him, minus the grace.

 

'I thought you said it was nothing fancy?'

 

A sly smile turned up the corners of Ryeowook's mouth. 'The menu is country boy friendly.' The joke was gentle and unmalicious, and Donghae liked that Ryeowook felt comfortable enough to make it. It felt like progress.

 

Donghae accepted the menu Ryeowook handed him, and also accepted the opportunity to flirt by refusing to open it. ‘You choose,’ he said. ‘You know what I want, right?’

  
Ryeowook widened his eyes at him, either genuinely surprised or being cute. Donghae wasn’t sure. He supposed it could be a blend of both. Did it really matter when it was so disturbingly successful? ‘I’ll take a guess,’ he murmured, and Donghae sat back to watch him thinking.

 

‘You want kimchi jjigae,’ he said eventually, and Donghae wasn’t sure if he was right or whether he just wanted it as soon as the words passed through Ryeowook’s lips, because he was looking at them and remembering their softness.

 

No, Donghae, no. Not now. Bad! He leaned back against the partition, folding his arms over his chest, and faked consternation. ‘Hmm. Okay. Sounds good.’

 

Yesung came back to take their orders. He came armed with soju. Ryeowook’s face lit up.

 

‘First four bottles on the house,’ said Yesung, grinning, setting them on the table. ‘But after that it’s on you guys. I don’t know if you’ve seen this kid drinking, Donghae, but you want to be careful. Don’t compete.’

 

Donghae smiled back. ‘Wouldn’t dare.’

 

‘Thanks, hyung.’ Ryeowook gave Yesung a dry look. ‘Kimchi jjigae and bibimbap, please.’

 

‘Consider it done. Back soon.’

 

‘How do you know him?’ Donghae asked, once Yesung was out of earshot.

 

‘Since forever,’ Ryeowook said, cracking open a bottle of soju and pouring for them. ‘If I had a brother…well, he’s like a brother to me anyway.’ He raised his soju glass and smiled at it – through it – remembering. ‘He used to stick up for me at school. He was three years older, which means a lot at school. You know.’ He sipped the soju. ‘His parents owned this place: they’re good people. He and I both worked here while we were in school. We spent a lot of time together.’

 

Ryeowook talked about Yesung and his family with a lot of warmth. Donghae remembered what Hyukjae had said about Ryeowook’s parents giving him a hard time, and felt the connection between this school-age Ryeowook and Hyukjae’s Ryeowook, who wanted to be a cook. Somehow he got the feeling that Yesung and Yesung’s family were more like his family than Ryeowook’s blood relatives.

 

‘He did a degree in business management while I was in high school,’ Ryeowook was saying, ‘and he worked hard and saved a lot while I was at university. He waited till I graduated so we could do military service together, even if we weren’t in the same division. Now he’s living his dream.’

 

Donghae was completely floored by the smile that followed, and more than a little touched by this retelling of Ryeowook’s tale, best friend included. Donghae had a brother, Donghwa, but while they were close, they both travelled a lot and didn’t see each other often. Donghwa certainly hadn’t waited to do service with him.  
‘He seems like a good person,’ Donghae said, sincerely, and Ryeowook’s focus returned from the past to the present, to Donghae.

 

‘His only flaw is his soccer obsession. He’s a good judge of people, though.’

 

‘Indeed,’ said Yesung, materialising with two massive stone pots of food and kneeling to place them on the table. ‘Soccer: my only weakness. Otherwise, I’m perfect. I still can’t believe you guys beat Daejeon. Good thing I’m not a gambling man.’ He grinned again; patted Donghae on the shoulder. ‘So. How do you know our Ryeowook, then?’

 

‘Physio. He was fixing my knee.’

 

‘Well that makes a whole lot of sense then. You need someone on full-time, bro, the way you play the game.’

 

‘I know,’ Donghae agreed, ‘I was going to ask Ryeowook.’

 

Yesung seemed quite taken by the idea.

 

‘If that happens I want all the free tickets, Wookie. How are you liking the big city, Donghae?’

 

‘I like it a lot, actually. I didn’t think I would. But it’s not what I expected, and I like it.’ Donghae looked at Ryeowook, who had finished his first glass of soju and picked up his spoon, as he said this. ‘The people, more than the place.’

 

Ryeowook, thankfully, was preoccupied with his bibimbap, and didn’t look up to see Yesung being perceptive, but Yesung saw and heard. As he smiled and nodded in approval of Donghae’s statement, he looked between the two of them as the gears in his head whirred almost audibly, and his gaze settled heavily on Donghae. He looked quizzical, but not disgusted. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s good. I hope you learn to love it. And enjoy!’ he added, standing to leave as a commotion broke out front-of-house. ‘I’ll go sort this out. If you run out of alcohol let me know, Wookie.’

 

‘Thanks, hyung,’ said Ryeowook, through a mouthful of rice, and as Yesung disappeared, brandished his chopsticks at Donghae. ‘Eat,’ he said.

 

It was three quarters of an hour and three bottles of the soju later that Donghae felt the gentle pressure of a socked foot against his own under the table. The first time, he assumed it was accidental, and thought it would be prudent to ignore it. The second time, it might have been his own fault, and he tried very hard to focus on the little of the food that remained.

 

The third time, though, they made eye contact. All calm and innocence, Ryeowook’s gaze never faltered as he slid his foot slowly up Donghae's leg to rest it on his lap.

  
It was lucky Donghae’s face wasn’t full of food, because his jaw might’ve unhinged slightly.

 

Ryeowook poured Donghae another shot, the politeness of his deferential mannerism a sharp contrast with the pressure of his toes against Donghae’s thigh. The only giveaway was the slight tremor in his hand as he poured the rest of the alcohol into his empty water glass. And swallowed it in one go.

 

Then he said, ‘I think we should go home now,’ looking just the tiniest bit pink, and Donghae couldn’t help but agree, although he knew that the ‘we’ wasn’t necessarily an invitation.

 

‘I’ll…I’ll walk you?’

 

‘If you would.’


	29. Shake it up

The only reason Donghae followed Ryeowook into the building was that Ryeowook didn’t ask him to leave.

 

And the lift.

 

And the apartment.

 

He hesitated by the door, waiting for Ryeowook to tell him to go, but the words never came. Instead, Ryeowook found and held Donghae’s gaze as he slowly took off his coat and his shoes. His movements slow and cautious, Donghae did the same, his eyes trained on Ryeowook’s, searching for the first sign of fear or resentment. He still half-expected Ryeowook to snap out of it and tell him to leave. But Ryeowook’s hand closed on his wrist, and he led him across the wooden floor into the bedroom. Then, just as quickly, he turned on him, so that they were face to face, and backed him into the door.

 

Donghae felt it click shut behind him, and they were plunged into darkness. Ryeowook's hands had come to rest on his chest, and now, they began to explore; not rough, not quite gentle, and imbued with the confidence of someone who dealt with bodies for a living.

 

Donghae leaned into Ryeowook's touch. He was a physical person, and he sort of wanted Ryeowook's knowledgeable hands on him. A lot. Anywhere. Everywhere. He bit his lip in an effort not to reciprocate. He'd keep his hands to himself until they were invited.

 

Or until his self-control snapped.

 

Whichever came first.

 

As he leaned into the pressure of Ryeowook's hands, his nose brushed against Ryeowook's forehead, and the dynamic between them shifted. Maybe Ryeowook was responding to the ripple of chest muscle caused by Donghae's movement, or perhaps it was just the sensation of Donghae's body yearning for his fingers. Whatever it was, the mood shifted, and left Donghae to take charge of the moment.

 

The light from outside had begun to filter into the room, and Donghae’s eyes had adjusted; it was dim, the glow of streetlights storeys below them, but easily enough to see by. Searching Ryeowook's gaze for any sign of fear or resistance, he still kept his hands to himself, but stepped forward, edging Ryeowook gently towards the bed.

 

Ryeowook's fingers flexed against Donghae's chest, and Donghae hummed a little sound of pleasure. He could feel Ryeowook's tension mounting, but there was a difference between tension and resistance. Tension was just hesitation, not doubt.

 

More to the point, Donghae's heart was pounding, and Ryeowook's palm was pressed against it, so he had to know that Donghae was nervous too.

 

The edge of the mattress hit the back of Ryeowook's knees, and he dropped onto the bed, his hands becoming fists in Hae's shirtfront to make sure he followed.

 

The warmth and realness of him made Hae feel dizzy. As he lowered himself onto Ryeowook's body, hands either side of his shoulders, he first felt Ryeowook’s breathing, then his heartbeat, then the beginning of a rather impressive hard-on nudging his abdomen.

 

His stomach tightened and he felt himself begin to swell against the confines of his jeans. Something very primal began building up within him, but he pushed against it, willing himself to resist. This was a situation he did not want to fuck up. He straddled Ryeowook’s waist, settling carefully over his hips.

 

Ryeowook was still hesitating. He knew Donghae knew he was aroused, and he was embarrassed. It was beautiful. 'Donghae-yah...I...'

 

He stopped, like he couldn't get any other words out, but he'd already brought them closer with the informal suffix. _Donghae-yah._

 

So Donghae just smiled.

 

It seemed to work.

 

'Donghae-yah...I've never done this with a man before.'

 

_Oh, Ryeowook..._

 

'Ryeowook-ah,' he said gently, 'I've never done this with anyone before.'

 

This seemed to take Ryeowook by surprise. Donghae sat back, straddling Ryeowook's waist as his dongsaeng came up onto his elbows, his dark eyes wide with disbelief.

 

'Hyung...Really?'

 

'Yeah. Really.' Donghae shrugged. Funny how kids these days seemed to think that it was something to be embarrassed about.

 

'But then... but with...with me...?'

 

Now seemed like a good time for Hae to add his hands to the equation: he placed them on Ryeowook's chest, stroking softly. 'With you, Ryeowook-ah. We don't have to do everything at once. It's okay.'

 

Ryeowook gazed up at him, then reached up and took Hae's face in his hands, drawing him down to press their lips together. He could feel Ryeowook getting harder, his dick pressing up against Hae's ass through two layers of denim, and his body responded with enthusiasm. He moved his hips in a slow, experimental undulation, and the friction stoked the fire in his stomach. Something between a growl and a whimper emerged from deep in his throat.

 

He was desperately pleased when Ryeowook's hands resumed their exploration. They slid up under his tshirt, up his abdomen, settled on his chest with a squeeze that curdled in his loins. His nipples hardened in response, and Ryeowook pinched them between his fingertips. Donghae ground down on him with a moan, and Ryeowook broke from the kiss, his eyelashes fluttering as he tipped his head back and grabbed the hem of Donghae's shirt, pulling upwards with obvious intent.


	30. Shake it up (II)

Donghae pretty much ripped the soft cotton in his eagerness to get it off. Ryeowook took it and flung it away overhead, exposing the smooth expanse of his throat, and Donghae couldn’t resist. He kissed the soft skin in the crook of that pale neck and travelled upwards. Ryeowook's hands migrated steadily down to settle on his ass. Unapologetically. Donghae couldn't help the little grunt of mixed satisfaction and excitement that escaped him as those long fingers dug into his glutes, and he intensified his attentions to Ryeowook's neck, using his tongue to taste that sweet, vulnerable skin. He had the urge to bite down, but began to suck on it instead.

 

Ryeowook made a breathy little sound as he did so, arching up against him. His dick was well and truly standing at attention now.

 

After a moment, long, hot fingers closed over Donghae’s shoulders and Ryeowook pushed him away, reversing their positions so that Donghae was the one who lay prone, propped against the pillows. Unhesitating hands splayed Donghae’s legs and Ryeowook laid himself between them, rubbing their jeans-clad cocks together, a low moan in his throat as his mouth made its way along Donghae’s collarbone.

 

While Donghae was not capable of doing anything coherent, like having an actual thought, he still enjoyed the fact that Ryeowook knew what he wanted. Worked for him, too; his hands had balled into fists, and he was probably stretching the back of Ryeowook’s shirt into weird shapes as he tried to use the material to bring his hips up against Ryeowook’s body.

 

‘Shit,’ he said, ‘Ryeowookie...’

 

Using the endearment was like flicking a switch.

 

Suddenly, there was no friction, and he writhed in a futile attempt to get it back before he realised why Ryeowook had taken his weight onto his elbow. Ryeowook, his body pressed along Donghae's right side, was having an argument with Donghae’s belt buckle.

 

He won.

 

Donghae lifted his hips, trying to be helpful, and Ryeowook hooked his fingers into the waistband of his underwear; two birds with one stone. Neither of them bothered to try and get Donghae's clothes off completely, though. Now that Donghae's erection rose unhindered by any constraints, Ryeowook seemed...distracted. Or rather, he had...refocused. He pressed against Donghae's side, his eyes following his fingertips as they ghosted along Donghae's v-line, up the wall of his abdominal muscle, over his chest; slowly but surely all the way up to his lips.

 

'Nobody's ever seen you like this before, have they, hyung?' It wasn't really a question. More like an affirmation. A declaration. A claim.

 

Donghae shook his head. 'No, Wookie. No one's ever seen me like you.'

 

Ryeowook snuffled, part smug, part shy. When he eventually replied, his voice was hushed and velvety. 'Hyung...even...I mean...as a man...you're beautiful.'

 

There was heat underlying the words. A rush travelled up Donghae's spine. He reached up to Ryeowook, tangling a hand in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was deeper than before. Ryeowook was off-guard and didn't resist the intrusion; instead, he responded by curling his elegant fingers gently around the base of Donghae's cock.

 

Donghae moaned straight into Ryeowook's mouth.

 

Ryeowook seemed to like it, if the boner against Donghae's thigh was any indicator.

 

He pulled back against the pillows, arching into Ryeowook's fist as his hand tightened experimentally, his breath hissing out between his teeth. 'Ryeowook… _ah_ …'

 

Ryeowook's lips were parted, his fringe falling into his eyes and a sheen of sweat beginning to form, slicking his dark hair to his forehead. He took a deep breath and steadied his grip on Hae's dick; tight, but not too tight. His strokes were slow and unrelenting, and it took all of Donghae's self-control not to start babbling senselessly. Then, Ryeowook drew his thumb over the tip of Donghae's dick, and he cried out anyway.

 

Ryeowook read Donghae’s reactions disconcertingly well. It was like Donghae’s body was a language only he spoke; everything Donghae wanted or needed, every change in pace and angle, was better than Donghae had ever done himself. As though Ryeowook knew Donghae better than Donghae did. Under those unrelenting ministrations, it didn't take long at all before the fire in Donghae's stomach became an explosion, and ropes of thick white cum decorated his stomach, his thighs and Ryeowook's hand and clothes.

 

He lay there panting, dazed, and silently suspected he was the luckiest man alive.

 

More so when he opened his eyes again and Ryeowook was gazing at him with something kind of like adoration.

 

'Oh, hyung,' he said, and those two little words said everything, before Hae slipped into a gentle sleep, Ryeowook's face shyly nestled against his shoulder, under his chin.

 

 

 

The first time Donghae stirred, the bed was empty, but still warm. He could hear the sound of water running at the fringes of his consciousness, but was too bleary to do much. He certainly wasn’t getting off the bed. Thankfully, there were tissues on the bedside table, so he used them to wipe the mess off his stomach as best he could, but there was no saving the bedspread. Never mind. He considered getting naked to sleep, but that might be too presumptuous, and also took too much effort. He settled for just kicking his jeans off before climbing under the covers and drifting off, cocooned by sheets that smelled faintly of Ryeowook.


	31. Shake it up (III)

The next time he woke, he was lying on his back. Light filtered in through the fibres of the dark curtains, little spears of it splashing across the bed and over his face. Donghae’s training had long since made it a habit for him to wake at five or six in the morning, and his body clock was well-attuned to respond to sunlight.

 

Usually, if the sun was out, he’d get up straight away and go for a run or something.

 

Not now, though.

 

Not today.

 

Not when Ryeowook lay over him. Donghae basked quietly in the realness of his body, warm and firm and heavy with sleep. It was a realness vaguely at odds with Donghae’s expectations. For some reason, maybe because he had such delicate facial features, he had thought that Ryeowook would be feather-light and fragile, although he certainly wasn’t displeased to find otherwise. Ryeowook must’ve come to bed while Donghae was sleeping, and he’d come without a shirt on. Donghae could feel the soft cotton of sweatpants against his thigh, but above the waistband, nothing but skin on skin, and although Ryeowook’s tummy was soft against his, he could feel that subtle suggestion of the musculature beneath with Ryeowook’s every breath.

 

Ryeowook stirred when he shifted. His palm had been resting on Hae’s chest, and now he stretched his arm out to tuck his hand possessively under Hae's hip, but he didn't wake. His upper lip was prickly when he nuzzled against Donghae's chest, and a wave of goosebumps speckled Hae's skin. A hot little surge of arousal fluttered through him at the sensation, and he forced his awareness outwards; made himself think about something else.

 

The room was pretty big for a city apartment. In Mokpo, everything was kind of bigger, but this room was easily as big as the one Donghae had grown up in -- maybe bigger, because it had just as much space, even with a huge bed in it. _And_ Donghae had had to cram a wardrobe in his room, too, whereas here there was a built-in with huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the doors, conveniently placed so that he only had to turn his head slightly to look into it. He spent a moment looking at their reflection.

 

Mostly Ryeowook's reflection.

 

The mirror was his new favourite inanimate object in the world for allowing him such an awesome view of Ryeowook's sleeping face.

 

He realised he wasn’t doing himself any favours, though, by looking at those dark eyelashes or that prim little mouth, and the fact that the bedclothes were down around their hips, revealing the snowy expanse of the side of Ryeowook’s torso, was definitely not helping. Hae started to examine the reflection of the rest of the room instead. It was blue, like the living room, with the same white running boards, but it was carpeted in white. The sheets were white, too, and the bedspread dark, patterned with narrow stripes of rich red and green. The furniture was minimal; just the bed, the bedside tables and a long, low bookshelf stuffed with books under the window, all timber, kind of bright and yet chocolate-coloured at the same time, like the floor in the other room. Although there wasn’t much of it and it wasn’t pretentious, it all looked kind of expensive. Parent furniture, probably. Especially if Ryeowook was an only child.

 

Donghae let his mind wander as he tried to imagine Ryeowook’s parents. His mind’s eye saw a beautiful mother and a proud father, but Eunhyuk had alluded to it, and meeting Yesung had removed all doubt: they were strangers to their own son. And how sad, for there to be such a distance between parents and children. His gaze had come to rest on Ryeowook’s sleeping face in their reflection again, and his face was so small against Hae’s broad chest. The way he was holding onto him, his fingers curled beneath Hae’s hipbone...

 

_You must have been so lonely, Ryeowook-ah._

 

With a sigh, Hae turned his head back to look at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and folded his arms around Ryeowook’s body, drawing him close. He got a little murmur of protest when he squeezed too tight, and another nuzzle when he got it right.

 

He dozed off again, and when he woke up next, it was to find Ryeowook propped on his elbows, looking down at him with a gentle doe-y expression, stroking his hair with one hand. He pushed his head up into Ryeowook’s palm and smiled, stretching out his shoulders by bringing his arms flat against the bed.

 

‘Morning,’ he garbled, through a wide yawn, pleasantly aware that Ryeowook’s gaze had been diverted to his biceps.

 

‘H-hi,’ Ryeowook stuttered, his eyes shifting back to Hae’s, a little glittery. He was the one who cleared his throat this time. ‘D-did you sleep okay?’

 

Donghae nodded and smiled wider, revealing his teeth. ‘Best sleep I ever had.’

 

Ryeowook attempted to draw his hand away, but Donghae caught it and pressed Ryeowook’s fingertips gently to his lips. He held them there just long enough to see the heat rising through Ryeowook’s cheeks.

 

Then he loosened his hold, allowing him to pull away, if he wanted to. He did, but not without a moment's pause, and...was that...a look of longing he gave Hae's mouth?

 

Almost in confirmation, his blush deepened.

 

Hae’s chest swelled a little. Ryeowook liked his mouth. This was flattering information.

 

‘Do you mind if I use your shower?’ he asked, casually coming up onto his elbow.

 

In his mind, the change in position would mean Ryeowook had to roll over onto his side and they would be pressed together at chest and hip. It worked out even better, because Ryeowook rolled onto his back, and took his own turn to yawn and stretch widely. Donghae got a proper eyeful of soft white skin, and the contradictory ripple of muscle beneath, and his breath hitched a little as he controlled the urge to let his hands or teeth or tongue gatecrash the party. He took a long breath to steady himself.

 

Probably the whole movement only took about three seconds, but they were three seconds that tried Donghae’s patience more than anything ever. More than a whole algebra class.

 

‘Of course. The towels are in the cupboard,’ said Ryeowook, who was either pretending really well or genuinely had no idea that Donghae was fighting temptation.

 

Donghae clambered the rest of the way over him and padded across the carpet to the bathroom. Only he managed to trip over himself, and do it in the least dignified way possible. He glanced back over his shoulder as he went, trying to look like he meant to look like an idiot. Ryeowook was watching him, his defences completely down. Only he didn’t have enough time to pull the walls back up when their eyes met, and instead he smiled at Hae, crinkly eyes and everything. And for the first time, he looked like he had hope.


	32. Spinning

Yunho was taking some time out in the bleachers, waiting for a management meeting to start, when Donghae approached him.

 

His hands were in his pockets and his eyes downcast, and although Yunho had not known him very long, from his body language it was patently obvious that the younger man had something to say, and that he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

 

Yunho decided to try to help by asking directly.

 

‘Something I can help you with, Mokpo?’

 

Donghae glanced up, looking faintly surprised but also pleased by the nickname, and nodded hesitantly. ‘Yea—yes,’ he said, ‘Captain Jung…I have a…kind of…a question.’

 

‘Come on then.’ Yunho patted the bench next to him. ‘And just call me hyung, will you? “Captain” makes me sound old.’

 

Donghae smiled, nodded, and took the indicated place at Yunho’s side, seeming to relax a little into his country mannerisms. ‘Okay, hyung. Thanks.’

 

‘What can I do for you, then?’

 

‘Ah.’ Donghae faltered again, staring at his feet. ‘I don’t…well…I don’t really know how to…what the uh, procedures for this are, hyung, but, well, I wanted to ask about physiotherapy.’

 

‘As in, the team physio?’

 

‘N-no…not exactly. You see, the thing is, right before we came to Seoul, I injured my knee, and so...I’ve been seeing this one therapist for it, and he’s really great, like, he really knows his stuff, and it’s been making a big difference for me…so I was…kind of wondering…’

 

Ah. A special therapist, then.

 

'So…you think it would be better to work consistently with the same guy than to chop and change. Especially now you've been working together for a couple of months and he's getting to know your body,' he supplied amiably.

 

It was a weird coincidence that, at the very moment he spoke these words, Changmin emerged from the club building, looking chic and streamlined in a dark grey suit.

 

He glanced up in their direction, and then looked back to his phone (more likely because he was preoccupied than out of politeness).

 

Yunho looked back to Donghae, who was giving him a nervous, wide-eyed, and vaguely embarrassed (guilty?) look, so he gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

 

'I’ve seen your file. And your game. I'll talk to management. There are a few players who bring their own physio or podiatrist or masseuse or whatever along with them; I don’t think it would be a problem.'

 

Donghae looked back at him with a degree of excitement that was almost childish in its sincerity. ‘You mean…it might be okay?’

 

‘Aigoo,’ Yunho said, grandpa-style, ruffling Donghae’s hair, ‘You were worried about asking? Don’t worry. Hyung’ll make a good case for you.’

 

Donghae nodded eagerly, his face lit up by his smile as he jumped to his feet and insisted on shaking Yunho’s hand. ‘Wow, that’s really—Thank you! Thanks, hyung. I’ll…I’ll get back to work now. Thanks!’

 

 _Like a giant puppy,_ Yunho thought, feeling vaguely paternal as he watched the younger man bound through the stands towards the gym.

 

On his way into the building, Donghae passed Changmin, and Yunho realised belatedly that Changmin had in fact been watching both of them throughout some, if not all, of the exchange. He was looking back at Yunho now, his expression unreadable from this distance.

 

He then looked back to his phone before turning and walking back inside.

 

Seconds later, Yunho got a message in his inbox.

 

 

 

_Don’t be late for the meeting. –Shim._

 

 

 

Yunho loved the simple things in life.

 

Management meetings did not fall into that category.

 

He sat across the table from Changmin, trying not to go cross-eyed with boredom as the Shims Sr and Jr had a heated discussion about off-season advertising.

 

His presence at these meetings was more of a formality than a necessity: especially because both of the Shims had an opinion about everything, often in total opposition to one another.

 

Although he had only recently started working with the team, Changmin had already proved himself on more than one occasion, winning no less than four contracts with major sponsors. Even Yunho supposed he deserved his grudging respect for that.

 

More surprisingly still, Changmin was not egotistical or pigheaded about his successes. At this very moment, in fact, he was making a case for the discontinuation of the contract he had most recently won.

 

The company in question had recently come under fire in the media forthe inadequate conditions of the factory workers. Changmin was of the opinion that the damage to the sponsor’s reputation was irreparable, and that the team should cut ties with them, regardless of the substantial revenue their contract supplied.

 

Shim Sr, who tended to err on the side of caution, had initially disagreed, but Changmin had argued his case dispassionately, using an army of facts and figures to attack every conservative defence Shim Sr raised, and although every word and gesture seemed calm and deliberate, something in his eyes made Yunho wonder if he cared more than he let on.

 

Then Changmin’s determined gaze locked with his across the table, and Yunho had to look away.

 

He decided he probably shouldn’t think too much about Shim Changmin, and more about mollifying Shim Sr, because he needed him in a good mood to sort out Lee Donghae’s little physio problem after this meeting.

 

‘You’ve made your point abundantly clear, Shim,’ Shim Sr was saying, his jaw tight with irritation, ‘But discussing the possibility of breaking _legally binding_ advertising contracts has extended this meeting far beyond an appropriate time frame. If you _don’t_ mind, I’m sure we would all like to take time to consider your proposal. You may present your recommendations next time we meet.’

 

Changmin was still watching Yunho. He could feel it.

 

‘Understood,’ Changmin replied, in a tone that indicated otherwise.

 

‘Good,’ replied Manager Shim, in a tone that indicated that he knew his son was thinking unfilial thoughts. ‘In which case, the meeting is adjourned.’

 

There was a rustle of briefing papers as the board members began to collect their papers and possessions together and depart from the room.

 

‘Shim and Jung, stay behind, please.’

 

‘Sir.’

 

‘You had something to ask me, Jung.’

 

‘Yes, sir. The Mokpo boys. I think you would have seen it in his files, but one of them has a pre-existing condition and wants to bring his own physiotherapist into the club.’

 

‘Ah, yes, Lee Donghae? I saw that in his files before tryouts...Something about his knee, right? Well, I’m not going to risk a rising star, Jung; he can have what he wants.’

 

‘I was hoping you’d say that, sir.’

 

‘Apart from that, they’re alright? The new boys?’

 

‘They’ve got game, sir.’

 

‘Good. I half thought it might’ve been Choi asking for another bloody nutritionist, but a physiotherapist is fine. Get Shim to sort out the paperwork for you before you go. Now, first things first—your opinion on the matter raised in today’s meeting. You represent your team. You’re the public face. How do you feel about wearing that brand stamp after the media circus?’

 

Well, that was a curve ball. Yunho shifted in his seat as both Shims turned their intense, expectant gazes on him.

_Think fast, Jung._

 

‘Executive Shim made an excellent case, sir,’ he said slowly, choosing his words with care. He paused as he considered his phrasing. ‘I think...I think I agree with him. The team...Professional soccer players are coming under a lot of social scrutiny. I don’t think we want to risk associating with dubious practices. We’re supposed to be role models. The brands we wear shouldn’t matter – we should be out there in the community, inspiring people.’

 

In a moment of eerie symmetry, both Shims sat back and folded their arms. Each was oblivious to the fact that the other had done the same, and each wore exactly the same expression.

 

Yunho suppressed a bubble of nervous laughter that welled up inside of him. He always got nervous when there were too many suits in a room.

 

But after a moment’s pause, Manager Shim nodded. ‘Alright, Jung. Thank you. I’ll take your opinion into consideration. Shim, please sort out the physiotherapy thing for Yunho, while you do whatever else it is you have to do. And I noticed that there’s an outreach proposal in the next agenda? Looking forward to hearing more about it from you two. I think you’ll work well together.’

 

Yunho blinked. His eyes shot to Changmin, who was staring intently back at his father, or rather, very deliberately _not at Yunho_.

 

Yunho felt a warm, soft feeling unfolding in his core.

 

Shim Changmin was revealing a determined and righteous side that was dangerously appealing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait folks! This week has been another one of Those Weeks, and it looks like there's more to come. But there's also plenty more story! Promise!


	33. Spinning (II)

After Shim Sr left the meeting room, Changmin rose to his feet and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold to give Yunho an expectant glance.

 

‘Well?’ he said, ‘We don’t need an entire meeting room for the two of us.’

 

Yunho scrambled to his feet, wishing his foot hadn’t fallen asleep during the meeting. This considered, he felt like he did a pretty good job of maintaining his dignity and keeping up with Changmin’s leggy stride as they moved along the corridor to Changmin’s office.

 

Changmin opened the door, and held it for him. The thing was, standing there, he kind of blocked the passage a little, and Yunho was very broad, which meant he had a little difficulty getting through the door without making a whole lot of contact with Changmin’s body.

 

Yet the slight strangeness in Changmin’s behaviour towards him, which seemed to have started since he’d seen him with Donghae earlier in the day, did not lessen.

 

He closed the door behind them both, and gestured to the chair on one side of the desk.

 

‘Please have a seat.’

 

Yunho sat.

 

‘Thanks for bringing my proposal forward,’ he said, when Changmin took the seat behind his desk.

 

Changmin’s gaze jerked down to a pile of papers on his desk, which he began to rearrange officiously before saying, in a brusque tone, ‘Yes, well. We still need to talk about that more—a lot more—if you want it to amount to anything.’

 

Yunho nodded amicably. ‘No problem. I’ve been drafting things and thinking about schools that might be good for it…I’ll send you a list. Or…maybe we could have another meeting? Over lunch or something?’

 

It was actually a perfectly innocent suggestion, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he had a sudden and vivid recollection of what happened after their _last_ lunch meeting.

 

So did Changmin, apparently, because beneath the sleek jet black curtain of his hair, his ears had taken on the slightest hint of red.

 

They cleared their throats in unison, and Yunho, reaching for a water bottle, managed to knock it off the corner of the desk.

 

While he was on the floor, fumbling to retrieve it, he heard Changmin say, ‘What was that, earlier?’

 

Yunho clambered back onto his chair, putting the water bottle back in place, and met Changmin’s faintly accusatory gaze with one of genuine mystification.

 

‘What was what?’

 

Changmin faltered, his eyes flitting down to his papers again until he recovered his composure and looked back again with renewed vim. ‘With that kid from Mokpo.’

 

Yunho stared for a long, dumbstruck moment.

 

‘You mean…Donghae?’

 

Changmin’s eyes narrowed slightly as he inclined his head.

 

‘Yes, _Donghae_ ,’ he echoed, his tone slightly hostile.

 

It took another minute or so for the penny to drop.

 

‘Oh,’ said Yunho. ‘ _Oh.’_

 

Was it possible that Shim Changmin was _jealous_? Of Lee Donghae? Because…because… _why?_

 

‘Well, he wanted to ask me about having his own physiotherapist. He’s only just new to professional league: he’s nervous, doesn’t know how things work. Sweet kid, really. He has a _lot_ of potential as an athlete, I’d say. Could be one of the best in the world one day. Incredibly talented. I’m glad we got him.’

 

Changmin’s face was a practiced shade of bland as he said, ‘You certainly seemed eager to make him feel _welcome_.’

 

‘Are…are you…jealous, Shim?’

 

‘Certainly _not,_ ’ said Changmin, too quickly.

 

They stared at each other for a long, awkward moment.

 

‘So, about his physiotherapist—’

 

‘I’ll check with legal and have them draft up a contract,’ Changmin interrupted sharply, getting to his feet again and glancing at the clock. ‘Look, I have a few things to do. And you have practice. So just…just tell him to come by my office and pick them up himself, would you? This afternoon, after you’re done sweating, chasing balls, and teaching your new pet from Mokpo how to use the locker rooms.’

 

A sliver of laughter was threatening to escape. Yunho choked on it and tried to disguise it as a cough.

 

Changmin was sardonic by default, but this was…this was downright _bitchy_. And hilariously unwarranted.

 

‘Sure. Thanks, Changmin.’

 

He got to his feet, and they moved towards the door together.

 

‘And Changmin?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

Yunho leaned a little closer than necessary, to speak directly into the younger man’s ear.

 

‘You’re right: there’s quite a lot we need to discuss. _In depth_.’

 

He leaned back, just in time to see a wave of gooseflesh flood over the nape of Changmin’s neck, and his eyes flash like stoked coals.

 

‘I’ve got to chase quite a few balls this week, though. You know, that and help my teammates use the locker room—it _is_ part of my job, after all.’ That, and he couldn’t resist the gibe: baiting Changmin was hilarious. ‘But if you’re free for dinner day after tomorrow, well, I’m all yours.’

 

Changmin swallowed visibly.

 

‘I’ll…I’ll see what I can do.’


	34. Mr. Simple

When the doorbell rang the following afternoon, Donghae was surprised. He was even more surprised when he opened it to find Ryeowook standing on their doorstep.

 

‘Hi,’ he said, with his usual witty brilliance. Then he realised he was wearing a singlet with a spectacular smear of his failed lunch down the front (spaghetti bolognese—Donghae-style), and died a little on the inside.

 

‘I...I didn’t know you were coming over. Wanna come in?’ He opened the door wider and stood aside, hoping he wasn’t looking as red as he felt.

 

Ryeowook hovered on the threshold, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his jacket, shaking his head shyly. ‘I just had to speak to Hyukjae, actually. But he didn’t pick up when I called, and I was walking by, so...’

 

There was a brief pause, in which Donghae decided to finish the sentence for him. ‘So you should come in,’ he said, bowing slightly and gesturing towards the interior with mock formality.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Ryeowook obeyed, stepping in and slipping his shoes off as Donghae closed the door behind them.

 

‘Hyukjae’s in the shower. His phone took a swim this morning, so it’s a good thing you came by,’ Donghae explained, leading the way through the short hall into the kitchen/living space. He thanked whatever divine powers may be that the place was moderately clean, and kicked a tower of washing off the couch and onto the floor so that Ryeowook could sit down. ‘He’ll be out in a couple of minutes I guess...he doesn’t like being any cleaner than he has to be.’ He paused to glower at the dishes teetering on the bench. Not that he was any less responsible for the mess than Hyukjae...but Ryeowook didn’t need to know that. ‘Tea?’ he added, padding over to the kettle and surveying the boxes of tea-bags, seeking inspiration; ‘I have barley tea—my mother sent it.’

 

Ryeowook sat down on the couch, his movements as careful as always. He looked all soft in a blue knit zip-up sweater. Donghae didn’t know what the material was called; maybe angora or something? Kind of fluffy. It looked nice though, especially when Ryeowook unzipped it halfway, exposing a cowl-necked t-shirt and a whole lot of skin. Or maybe not that much skin, but the jumper was blue and the shirt was dark grey, and by contrast his skin was pale, but it looked soft, just like…

 

‘Uh...Donghae-ssi? You missed the pot.’

 

‘What? Oh...’

 

He managed to make the tea without further incident and joined Ryeowook on the couch.

 

‘So.’

 

‘So,’ Ryeowook echoed, blowing on his tea.

 

With effort, Donghae returned his attention to Ryeowook’s eyes. ‘So how have you been?’

 

‘Good...I’ve been good.’ Ryeowook eyed him over the rim of his cup. ‘It’s only been two days, Donghae.’

 

Donghae flushed, but plunged on ahead anyway. ‘Can I get away with saying something lame?’

 

Ryeowook made a dubious face, but there was a flicker of curiosity in the quirk of his mouth. ‘Depends how lame it is.’

 

‘Feels like it’s been forever.’

 

‘Wow. That’s...pretty lame.’

 

‘But you’re smiling, so I get away with it, right? Oh, and I spoke to Yunho-hyungnim today, and--’

 

Hyukjae chose this moment to clear his throat loudly and make his presence known, and Ryeowook turned away so fast Donghae thought he heard his neck crack.

 

‘Hyukjae-hyung!’

 

‘Hey, Wookie.’

 

‘Uh...My parents wanted to invited you to come over for dinner tonight, if you’re free. At their place.’

 

‘Yeah, sure. That sounds good.’

 

Ryeowook nodded and turned to face forwards again, his eyes flicking guiltily in Hae’s direction. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and Hae was a little taken aback.

 

‘For…?’

 

‘Well, Hyukjae’s their nephew, but…’

 

Hae was still confused when Hyukjae intervened with a bark of deranged laughter. ‘Ryeowook...Hae’s not the type to take it personally.’

 

‘Take what personally?’

 

‘Oh my God, Hae. Sometimes I wonder how you’re still alive.’ Rolling his eyes and tapping his head melodramatically, Hyukjae returned his attention to Ryeowook. ‘It’s already five, so give me a second—I’ll get changed and we can go, okay, Wookie? Finish your tea. Donghae, try not to get any dumber.’

 

He picked his jeans up off the floor and disappeared into his room, leaving a trail of laughter in his wake.


	35. Mr. Simple (II)

Hyukjae slammed the door on his way back into the flat, and Donghae woke with a start to find his face fused with the game controller. He detached it gingerly.

 

Hyukjae looked angry.

 

‘Did the food suck?’ Donghae asked lightly. He knew from experience it was always better to try to offset Hyukjae before he got into a bad mood. In spite of his good nature, his friend could brood like nobody’s business, and his bad moods could last for days.

 

Luckily, he was still high-spirited enough to respond to the dig. He snorted as he poured himself a glass of milk from the fridge. ‘I ate like a king,’ he answered drily.

 

So. Not the food then.

 

Hae straightened up and wiped his mouth. ‘What happened?’

 

‘I forgot what they were like.’

 

‘Did they say something to you?’

 

‘Not to me, man. Your little Wookie.’

_Your_ little Wookie.

 

Donghae liked that.

 

But now wasn’t the time to be feeling self-satisfied.

 

Hyukjae had paused to breathe and rub a hand over his eyes, but now he continued. ‘You know how I said they kind of give him a hard time?’

 

Donghae nodded.

 

‘Well...that’s kind of taken on a whole new dimension. Man. I can’t believe it. And it...they’re his parents, so I couldn’t say anything, but...’ He stuffed the empty milk carton into the bin, his face like a thundercloud. ‘You might want to give him a little space right now.’ He paused, looking uncomfortable. ‘They really laid into him about...’

 

He paused again, frowning with what seemed like his whole body.

 

Hae felt brave enough to hazard a guess at what Ryeowook’s parents might harass him about. ‘About his girlfriend?’

 

A pause, then Hyukjae nodded. ‘I told him he should come home and hang out with us, but he said he wanted to be alone.’

 

Donghae thought about it. He thought for a moment about Ryeowook’s cautiousness and hesitation, and his embarrassment when Donghae tried to do anything for him, even tiny things, like buying him that hot chocolate. Then about his long pale fingers curling under his hipbone, holding onto Hae in his sleep. Awkward but certain understanding dawned on him. ‘She left him.’

 

‘Left him? Oh, if only she’d been so kind. She was cheating on him for months, turned out.’ Hyukjae’s expression had gone from unhappy to venomous. ‘He’s just too...too _nice_. Cares too much about _her_ reputation to tell _them_ what happened. Her _reputation_!’

 

‘Oh.’

 

There was silence as Hyukjae breathed in deeply, puffing his cheeks out. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s play _FIFA_.’

 

 

 

They went to bed after Donghae lost painfully and earned himself a week of doing dishes as punishment. But he couldn’t sleep. Hyukjae’s words went round and round his head.

 

_Give him space._

 

Hyukjae was probably right. He was usually right about these things. Hae always listened to Hyukjae when it came to stuff like feelings, because he knew himself that he was a little lacking in emotional finesse, and he didn’t want to ‘do a Donghae’, as Hyukjae liked to put it. Not with Ryeowook’s feelings. But he swore he could feel his hipbone tingling where Ryeowook’s fingers had been the other morning, and he couldn't stop himself from imagining Ryeowook, going home alone to his apartment. Alone, to someplace dark, with no one to take care of him, and through no fault of his own: just the carelessness of some and the obliviousness of others. Carelessness and obliviousness from people who should know him better – people who should love him.

 

Donghae rolled over and thumped his pillow with irritation.

 

Then his phone rang.

 

He almost fell off his bed with surprise when he saw Ryeowook’s number onscreen.

 

‘Hello? Ryeowook-ah?’

 

‘I’m sorry it’s so late, Donghae-ssi.’

 

‘Don’t be.’

 

There was such a dead silence on the other end that for a moment Donghae thought the call had dropped out. He was relieved to hear Ryeowook sigh, even if there was that tell-tale tremor in his breathing.

 

‘A-are you...are you busy? It doesn't matter if you are, or if you want to sleep, I just--’

 

‘I’ll be there in twenty.’


	36. Mr. Simple (III)

Actually, it only took Donghae twelve and a half minutes, according to the time stamp on his phone, which he checked after sneaking his way into the building and taking the stairs, two at a time, to the fifth floor.

 

He stopped to catch his breath before knocking on Ryeowook’s door: even Donghae thought it might be weird to show up on someone's doorstep breathing heavily in the early hours of the morning.

 

After a moment, the door opened a crack, and Ryeowook peered out, his small face somehow smaller than usual under his dark mop of hair, which was sticking up in strange directions.

 

Hae noticed the puffiness around his eyes straight away.

 

He’d been crying.

 

They’d barely made eye contact before Ryeowook turned away, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down on it listlessly. He pulled the long sleeves of his sloppy joe down over his hands and stared at the ground, his eyes distant.

 

Hae thought that he could maybe see the shadows of the night’s events replaying in Ryeowook’s downcast gaze, and Hyukjae’s words echoed in his head once more.

 

 _Give him space,_ he'd said.

 

And maybe he should, but Ryeowook had called _him_ , not the other way around.

 

He surrendered the last of his hesitation and stepped inside, closing the door softly as he kicked off his shoes, and placed them neatly in the entryway.

 

Ryeowook sat lost in his own little world, so Hae just took a seat on the couch beside him, a couple of inches between them.

 

He made a silent promise to himself: he would follow Hyukjae’s advice and give Ryeowook space, but never so much that he’d be out of reach. Literally or figuratively. Now and forever.

 

Ryeowook snuffled and pulled a tissue out of the box on the coffee table, wiping his nose delicately. (Donghae, who would’ve just used his own sleeve, filed this away in his growing list of ‘things city people do’.)

 

‘Sorry for calling so late,’ he mumbled, flushing. ‘I shouldn’t have called...it’s so late...I mean, early. And you have practice tomorrow, right? I mean, later today.’ He laughed, but it was short and self-derisive.‘You must think I’m crazy.’

 

‘It’s okay. I was just lying awake and thinking about you,’ said Donghae, and immediately regretted it--but for once his moronic honesty seemed to have a positive outcome, because it shocked Ryeowook out of his reverie.

 

His eyes jumped to Donghae’s face, pupils widening with surprise, and his lips parted in the perfect circle of a syllable that never escaped his mouth.

 

‘I’m really glad you called, Ryeowook-ah,’ Donghae added, knotting his fingers together in his lap to stop himself from reaching out and taking Ryeowook’s hand.

 

Ryeowook was still staring, his expression both bewildered and embarrassed.

 

‘I...I...I just wanted to see you,’ he said softly, and in the end Donghae couldn’t stand it, reaching out to brush the pale skin of Ryeowook’s cheek with the knuckles of his left hand.

 

Ryeowook closed his eyes at the contact. He turned his face towards Donghae as he did so, and Hae was acutely aware of the quiver of Ryeowook’s lips and the quaver in his exhalation. He felt, rather than saw, the way that Ryeowook moved towards him. It was minute, less than shifting his weight, but it was an action that spoke louder than words: wanting contact, wanting comfort, and not knowing how to ask.

 

Donghae turned a little further round, slid his arm across Ryeowook’s stooped shoulders, and drew him closer.

 

‘I wanted to see you too,’ he said, and Ryeowook relaxed against him. 'I was going to tell you this afternoon, but then Hyukjae came in...Ryeowook-ah, I asked the team captain, and he said they'd probably let me. So I know...I know you'll be busy, with school. But in all seriousness, will you be my physiotherapist, please?'

 

Ryeowook didn't say a word. Donghae felt him smile and nod against his chest, firstly, but it was followed by a soft snuffle and Ryeowook's face pressing closer as he began to weep again.

 

It didn't seem right to say anything.

 

Donghae just held him close, and let him let it out.

 

 

 

This time, when 6 o’clock began to shine through the sheer curtains, Donghae knew he couldn’t ignore it. But he spared himself five minutes or so to come to terms with his surroundings. He didn’t really remember lying down to sleep, but they must have done at some point. Without even turning the light off, apparently, because the small lamp in the corner still glowed with rosy phosphorescence, as though to spite the cold light of the wintry dawn. Donghae lay closest to the edge of the couch, and Ryeowook was stretched out against him, sandwiched between Donghae’s body and the back of the sofa, wrapped up safely in Hae’s arms.

 

He stirred as Donghae disentangled himself and stood up. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he made as though to rise, but Donghae stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest.

 

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘You should sleep.’

 

Ryeowook’s mind must have been fuddled by sleep, because he nodded as though he was actually going to obey, barely focussing on Hae’s face through his eyelashes. ‘M’kay.’

 

But as Hae turned to leave, long fingers wrapped forcefully around his wrist and drew him back. He found himself face-to-face with Ryeowook – or rather, chest-to-chest, as Ryeowook’s arms wrapped around his neck and he pressed his face sleepily against Donghae’s cheek, murmuring, ‘You have to come over for dinner tonight. I want to cook for you.’

 

His voice was soft, his posture confiding, and everything about the fragile moment set Donghae's urge to comfort and protect on fire.

 

‘What time do you want me?’

 

‘When do you finish?’

 

‘I’ll be round at eight.’


	37. Beside

Yunho was technically on the field at the moment, but he had a bad habit of forgetting to take his phone out of his pocket, so when it buzzed, he took it out and checked it on autopilot, moving to the edge of the field while the others were setting up the sprints.

It was a message from Changmin.

 

_Can you leave practice early?_

Yunho smiled and shook his head. He appreciated Changmin’s directness.

 

 _Not really_ , he replied.

 

Changmin had messaged a response before he could even get the phone back into his pocket.

_I like your ass in those shorts_

Turning around to look for the not-so-mystery messenger, Yunho turned to stare towards the entry into the club. He would never admit that the posturing was deliberate—chest out, shoulders back, chin down, lips parted—but it sure as hell was.

 

He couldn’t see Changmin anywhere, which led him to conclude that the other man was watching from his office window, which overlooked the playing field, about ten metres away and two metres up from where Yunho was standing.

 

He had just redirected his gaze to the reflective glass of the second-floor window when his phone buzzed again.

 

_You look good when you sweat_

Followed by _There's an urgent modelling job_

 

A bit of a non-sequitur, but Yunho decided to go with it. The argument that Changmin had made in defence of advertising had actually kind of made him reconsider his reluctance. He was right: outreach programs like the one Yunho wanted needed money to run, and money came from sponsors. Yunho didn’t really trust companies, but he trusted Changmin, now, after the latter had demonstrated his ethical standpoint with the whole factory worker debacle.

 

 _Which company?_ he replied, turning back to supervise the junior players’ drills.

 

_An audition first_

_Huh?_

_Media liaison has to make sure you’re right for the job_

Wow. Since when was what went between the lines more obvious than the actual wording?

 

_Pervert_

_Ask Siwon_

_I hate modelling_

_It’s Siwon’s father’s birthday today, remember? He’s not here_

_More to the point, specific needs_

_Subtle_

 

_Tell them your cat is sick or something_

_I don’t have a cat_

_Make something up_

_I can’t watch you in those shorts anymore_

_By the way it's not actually a modelling job_

 

Yunho scoffed, wishing that the thought of Changmin watching him and wanting him didn’t leave him feeling quite so warm and flustered.

 

Donghae, who had helped set up, but was unable to participate in sprints on the orders of his physio, came up to stretch his quads nearby, glancing curiously at the phone in Yunho’s hands.

 

‘Everything okay, hyungnim?’

 

‘Yeah, everything’s fine. Just Shim from PR…I might have to take off, there’s something he needs to discuss, and he says it’s urgent. Donghae-yah, can you me a favour and let everyone know?’

 

Donghae assented readily with a nod and a smile, and Yunho silently blessed him for his ingenuousness.

 

‘Will you come back, hyungnim?’

 

‘No, I don’t think I’ll make it back again today.’

 

‘Okay, no worries. I hope it’s not a big problem, hyung.’

 

 _Big, but definitely not a problem. No, I’m sorry, Donghae-yah. Please stay innocent._ ‘Take it easy on your knees,’ Yunho said, trying to change his mental track, as well as trying to make the abrupt departure more casual. Then, as an afterthought— _Nice save_ , _Jung_ —‘Speaking of knees, did you get your paperwork from Shim? For your physio?’

 

The last thing he needed was Donghae turning up at Shim’s office, without warning, on legitimate business.

 

‘Oh, yeah…he called me this morning. Thanks, hyungnim. I really appreciate it. I’m going to talk to my physio about the contract tonight.’

 

‘Great. Good. Well, you’ll have to bring him in for an interview, but otherwise I think you’ve got a green light.’ His phone vibrated again; he’d stuffed it back in his pocket, and drew it out again to see another message:

 

_Hurry up._

 

 

 

‘You have no decency, Shim,’ said Yunho, opening Changmin’s door without knocking.

 

Changmin looked back at him, a predatory smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

 

‘You didn’t change out of your sweaty football gear...?’

 

‘You told me to hurry.’

 

‘Oh, I’m not complaining. Though I _had_ thought maybe we should have dinner first, after all…’

 

 _Asshole._ Yunho narrowed his eyes, moving around Changmin’s desk and placing his hands on the arms of the chair.

 

‘Dinner first, huh?’ he said.

 

Changmin’s smirk and façade of relaxed composure splintered as Yunho dropped one of his hands down to his dick—he shuddered, licking his lips nervously.

 

Yunho smirked.

 

‘ _Now_ who likes to watch, Shim? You’ve been sitting up here…Just how _hard_ have you been working? Or have you been looking out the window watching this whole past hour…?’

 

He leaned back and peeled his shirt off, throwing it on Changmin's lap.

 

Changmin swallowed hard.

 

Inwardly, Yunho beamed, satisfied that he had turned the tables, and pointed to the spare button-down hanging on the coat rack.

 

'Yeah...I guess you're right. Better change out of my sweaty football gear. Dinner first. Can I borrow that shirt?'

 

Realising the trick, Changmin scowled, and threw Yunho's shirt back at him, somewhere between a man who knew he'd been caught and a small child sulking.

 

'Go change. I'll meet you out front in five minutes.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter because brain not working TTTT


	38. Beside (II)

It was a tense meal to start with, because although Yunho had successfully restored the balance between them, it just meant that now they were suffering from equal degrees of sexual tension, and they were equally eager to get the hell out of there and deal with pressing urges.

 

It made it kind of hard to discuss work. And although they made an honest attempt, the decision to eat in Jongno again was for reasons that did not need discussion.

 

Changmin, man of the society pages, landed them a table at a high-end restaurant on the top floor of a building overlooking Cheonggyecheon, and they managed to at least conclude which Seoul public schools to contact as potential candidates for an outreach program—two middle-tier schools, and three bottom-tier institutions with reputations for drop-outs and delinquency.

 

Their main courses had just come to the table, and the papers and planning been set aside, when a familiar but unexpected voice greeted them each by name.

 

‘Yunho-hyung! Changminnie!’

 

‘S-siwon-hyung?’ said Changmin, startled, rising to his feet to greet his senior—a sudden but striking reminder of the fact that there was a two year age gap between Yunho and Changmin, too, but one not well-observed.

 

Yunho made a mental note to find a way to make Changmin pay for his insolence later. For now, he simply made use of his seniority to nod to Siwon, instead of rising. ‘Hey, Siwon-ah. I hear it’s your father’s birthday. Many congratulations.’

 

Siwon nodded, smiling genially and waving for Changmin to sit back down, which the latter did. ‘Thank you. Thanks very much. I’ll pass it on.’

 

He glanced sideways, to where the rest of his family party was settling in the restaurant’s interior.

 

‘I won’t hang around. But hey, funny to see you here with a table for two. French food is a romantic choice—I didn’t realise you were close. You’re not _dating_? Get a girlfriend, Min! You can’t date Yunho-hyung!’

 

He clapped Changmin congenially on the shoulder, laughing loudly.

 

It was a careless and meaningless comment. A typical Korean joke between male friends. A jab that was intended to be harmless because it was so culturally implausible for men to have a romantic interest in one another.

 

Changmin responded in kind, laughing it off with a ‘What the hell, hyung? Have you gone crazy?’

 

Yunho pasted on a smile, but had the strangest feeling on the inside.

 

Kind of like nutrient-rich shit was being shovelled onto seeds of doubt somewhere deep and secret in his guts.

 

They had gone for an unseasonably long time without germinating, really.

 

Still chuckling to himself, well-mannered Siwon wished them a good evening, said his goodbyes, and departed to his father’s table.

 

Changmin and Yunho finished eating in a heavy silence.

 

 

 

It was not until they were safely ensconced in the hotel room that either of them spoke, and then, it was because Yunho pulled away when Changmin tried to initiate a kiss—pulled away, and headed for the wine, prompting a question, in a tone of genuine confusion, from the younger man.

 

‘What? Did I do something wrong?’

 

He spoke informally, now that they were in private, and the contrast between his public face, his professional face, and this...

 

Yunho poured Changmin a glass, as well, and held it out.

 

‘No, Changmin. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s something _I_ can’t understand, not your fault.’

 

When Yunho looked up, he was surprised to find Changmin looking at him with what appeared to be genuine concern.

 

It kind of hurt, actually. Changmin was looking at him in a way that showed he cared. The same mouth that had laughed so easily at the suggestion they were dating was now tilted downwards at the sides with worry.

 

_The two parts of your life…they don’t coexist, do they, Shim._

 

He couldn’t say it, didn’t know how, so he just shook his head and held the wine glass out a little further. ‘Sorry,’ he said, though to whom, or for what, he wasn’t sure.

 

Changmin stepped forward to accept the glass, pushing his hair out of his eyes to reveal that they were warm and dark and apprehensive.

 

‘Whatever it is, _say it_ , Yunho. Secrets can make you unwell.’

 

‘Secrets,’ Yunho repeated softly, retreating from Changmin’s gaze to look into the ruby depths of his wine. ‘Secrets are the problem.’

 

‘I’m not used to feeling stupid, Yunho, but I’m going to need you to tell me what you mean.’

 

Yunho shook his head again, suddenly feeling very tired.

 

Somehow, without him noticing, an insidious sentimentality had crept into his encounters with Shim Changmin, and now here he was, expecting the impossible.

 

_You’re an idiot, Jung. A moron._

 

But the thing was, he didn’t _want_ candlelit dinners overlooking Cheonggyecheon. He just didn’t want Changmin to be able to laugh about it, like it was nothing.

 

Changmin had reached out, to touch his hand, still looking at him with large, soft eyes, and his touch was so tender that Yunho wanted to cry.

 

He waited until he thought he could keep his voice steady before speaking.

 

‘Can I ask you something?’

 

Changmin nodded slowly.

 

‘Does this…do _we_ …mean anything to you?’

 

Changmin’s eyelids flickered. It had clearly not been the question he was expecting.

 

‘Please, tell me the truth. I just want to know.’


	39. Beside (III)

Changmin took a small step backwards, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass.

 

His expression stayed neutral, but his eyes were suddenly flooded with a glut of mental activity, and it was completely illegible to Yunho’s inferior decoding abilities.

 

Yunho almost regretted asking, but he’d said it now.

 

After a moment, in a low voice, Changmin said, ‘What kind of an asshole do you think I am, Yunho?’

 

Yunho shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant—’

 

‘Do you think I’m really that cold?’

 

Another awkward silence fell between them as Yunho struggled to find other words, to replace the ones he’d said. He was beginning to feel inexplicably afraid, his scalp tight with adrenaline, and dread seeping out through his entire body from his core.

 

He closed his eyes, unable to hold Changmin’s unreadable glare.

 

After a moment, Changmin stepped forward, and pulled his wine from his hand. Yunho heard two scrapes of glass against wood as the glasses were set aside.

 

Then, suddenly, he was enfolded by warmth.

 

He would always think of Changmin’s smell as the scent of the black silk tie.

 

Strong arms held him close, one hand on the small of his back, and the other between his shoulder blades, and in the end it was he himself who couldn’t reach out and reciprocate.

 

‘I’m going to be honest with you, Yunho.’

 

The rich cadence of Changmin’s voice was coloured by something unfamiliar. Yunho couldn’t place it.

 

‘I didn’t set out to do this. I _don’t_ do this.’

 

‘I know,’ Yunho whispered, his stomach tightening with dismay. He opened his eyes to see his own reflection in the mirror across the room—and Changmin’s back, turned against him, giving no clue of his expression or feelings. ‘No one knows about you, and no one can know. I know.’

 

‘Let me finish, Yunho. What I’m trying to say is: the first time, it was a mistake. The second time, it was also a mistake. The trouble is, every time, I knew it was a mistake, and I did it anyway. Do you know why?’

 

Yunho’s throat was dry. He couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head wordlessly.

 

‘Because I didn’t fucking _want_ it to mean anything, alright? But now it does.’

 

There was a strange wet feeling at the corner of one of Yunho’s eyes.

 

‘Don’t lie,’ he whispered.

 

Changmin’s arms tightened around Yunho so much that he could hardly breathe.

 

‘I’m not lying. I can’t lie to you. I said I’d tell the truth, so there it is—I didn't want it, but now you do. Mean something to me. I like you, Yunho. And I hate you for it.’

 

There was an edge to his voice that told Yunho he was telling the truth. Both parts.

 

‘But I can’t sing it from the rooftops, Yunho. That’s not the world we live in. It’s just how it is. No one can know.’

 

He pulled away to hold Yunho at arm’s length, and said it again.

 

‘No one can know.’

 

There was no time to wipe away the second tear: it fell, straggling down over Yunho’s cheekbone as he reflected Changmin’s words straight back at him.

 

‘I thought you said "Secrets make you unwell”,’ he said.

 

It was petty and childish, but he did it anyway.

 

Maybe he wanted Changmin to be angry.

 

Instead, the other man just shook his head, his lip curling slightly.

 

'No, Yunho. When I said that, I was talking about _you_. Secrets make _you_ sick. _You_ can't lie. You're a hopeless idealist. You're an open book. You're the kind of person who blurs the line between brave and stupid.'

 

Yunho stared, dumbstruck.

 

There was nothing he could say to that, really. Though he supposed it was further evidence that Changmin would not, in fact, lie--at least not to him.

 

'Then...you're...fine with how things are,' he said, eventually. It was a statement, not a question, and he was unable to keep the disappointment from his tone.

 

Changmin scowled, his jaw tightening. ‘What can I do, Yunho? Change the fucking world? We have to live in it in the meantime, and it doesn't change quickly. Your job is being in the public eye. My job is putting you there.’

 

And there it was: the stalemate. The line in the sand. The distance between them was, at the last, not physical, nor emotional, but ideological.

 

Changmin closed the physical distance between them once more, reaching out to cup Yunho's chin in his hand, his dark eyes uncertain.

 

'I'm sorry about Siwon,' he said.

 

Yunho nodded.

 

It was enough. 


	40. This is love

Donghae was on Ryeowook’s doorstep ten minutes earlier than he’d planned, and the smell of food drifting into the corridor made his mouth water. He knocked on the door and waited, a clamour of pots and pans meeting his ears, followed by a faint curse and some stomping. After a second, Ryeowook, a tea towel hanging around his neck, threw open the door. He gave Donghae a quick smile, a millisecond's ‘hello’, and almost immediately dashed back to the stove.

 

 

The whole scenario was so utterly domestic that Donghae almost swooned with happiness.

 

 

He closed the door behind him as he entered the little flat, and sat down in the entryway to take off his shoes. Ryeowook hummed as he cooked, with the bang-crash of cooking implements for percussion, and he was so involved in the process that he didn’t seem to notice Donghae pad across the floor to stand behind him and peer over his shoulder at dinner.

 

 

Kimchi fried rice. _That_ was the smell.

 

 

Donghae looped his arms gently around Ryeowook’s waist. ‘Looks awesome,’ he said softly.

 

 

‘You’re early,’ Ryeowook chided in response. ‘It’s not quite ready. Go sit down at the table,’ but the instruction was somewhat at odds with the way he leaned back into the embrace, so Donghae waited until Ryeowook pulled away before he obeyed, breathing in the vague scent of lemon and mint, soft hair pressed against his cheek.

 

 

He asked if he could do anything to help as he relinquished Ryeowook to the cooking, and was given a disparaging glance as the other man waved a spatula at him, dismissive. ‘I said sit down, didn’t I?’

 

 

So Donghae did. The table was already made, so he chose the seat that allowed him to watch Ryeowook in the kitchen and sat there, a little bit endeared to Ryeowook’s maternal behaviour.

 

 

Dinner was ready in a matter of minutes, and Ryeowook brought the giant steaming pan of kimchi fried rice to the table, setting it in the heat pad on the middle of the table, the cheese just added and melting slowly through the mixture. ‘Jjajjang.’

 

 

‘Awesome,’ Donghae repeated delightedly.

 

 

Ryeowook took his bowl and filled it to the top, setting it down in front of him with eye contact and an embarrassed smile. ‘It’s just fried rice. But enjoy.’

 

 

Initially, they ate in silence, mostly because Donghae was starving, and also because the fried rice was really, really good. After refilling his bowl, though, Donghae decided that tonight it was his turn to play footsies, and planted his socked feet on either side of Ryeowook’s, giving them an occasional stroke with his toes. And after the second bowl, he suddenly remembered the papers he had obtained from Shim from PR.

 

 

‘Oh, Ryeowook-ah!’ he said abruptly, as he remembered, leaping to his feet and dashing to his bag by the door.

 

 

Ryeowook looked mildly alarmed by his sudden exclamation, and was still wide-eyed when Donghae crossed back to the table, placing the papers in his hands.

 

 

‘I got these today. You’re meant to say whether that’ll be enough money and stuff.’

 

 

Still staring at Donghae with round eyes, Ryeowook took the papers and began to flick through them, comprehension dawning slowly on his features. He then turned back to the front and started scanning them properly, when suddenly his eyes went all big again and he dropped them in surprise.

 

 

‘What’s wrong?’

 

 

‘Donghae-ssi...have you read these?’ he asked, picking them up again.

 

 

Donghae shook his head. ‘It’s your agreement.’

 

 

Ryeowook looked amused. ‘You still have to sign it, hyung. I’ll be working for you.’

 

 

‘You’ll be working for the club, really. What’s wrong? Bad terms?’

 

 

‘No, hyung, it’s just...it’s too much _money_.’

 

 

‘Really? How much is too much?’

 

 

Ryeowook held up the paper and pointed to the figure dumbly. 'For _part-time_? It's...'

 

 

Donghae shrugged. ‘I guess you’ll just have to work harder,’ he said, smirking. ‘You can start tonight if you like. My back is kind of sore.’

 

 

 

 

He woke at 4:53 a.m., according to the digital clock on the bedside table.

 

 

A pale predawn light was sifting through the cracks in the curtains.

 

 

He stirred, shifting backwards, and the movement reminded him where he was. He’d slept in nothing but his underwear, and when he moved, his skin brushed against the soft cotton of Ryeowook’s t-shirt; Ryeowook himself warm and solid behind the flimsy layer of cloth.

 

 

After a moment getting accustomed to consciousness, Donghae realised that at some point in the night, he had become the little spoon. Then, slowly, he became aware that part of what had woken him up in the first place was that warm and solid Ryeowook was…warm and solid. Against the small of his back. One of the perils of sleeping with men, he supposed.

 

 

He wondered absentmindedly if Ryeowook was dreaming, and, if he were, what he would be dreaming about. After a moment, though, he chose not to pursue that line of thought: it led down the road into Ryeowook’s subconscious, where he had no right to be. And anyway, Ryeowook might even be dreaming of him. Or better yet, he might even be awake, in which case this situation paid Donghae a pretty high compliment.

 

 

He pressed his body back against Ryeowook’s, testing for consciousness.

 

 

Ryeowook’s breathing, deep and steady against the back of Donghae’s neck, hitched and stirred. ‘Donghae,’ he murmured, and whether he was asleep or awake, or somewhere in between, the way he said his name was definitely flattering.

 

 

Apparently he was drawn closer to consciousness by Donghae’s movement, because his arm crept around Donghae’s waist, hand sliding upwards to press into the flesh of his chest, massaging the muscle with long strokes of the ball of his hand.

 

 

Donghae decided he liked this half-conscious Ryeowook. Fully conscious Ryeowook was too reserved.

 

 

A slow squeeze of Ryeowook’s long fingers had Hae’s toes curling. His back arched instinctively, pushing his hips back Ryeowook’s groin, and the sudden contact elicited a soft moan from both of them.

 

 

‘Are you awake?’ he asked, speaking softly, just in case.


	41. This is love (II)

‘Mmm,’ said Ryeowook, noncommittally.

 

 

Not the response Donghae had hoped for.

 

 

He shifted his hips backwards again, this time rocking a little, curious as to whether he could coax Ryeowook's partial arousal into something more...wholehearted.

 

 

He was rewarded by a velvety groan.

 

 

Ryeowook's sharp features pressed against the back of his neck as the younger man nuzzled him. The sensation of stubble, rough on his sensitive skin, sent an unexpected wave of gooseflesh down his arms that became a subdermal heat, sliding down through his insides to pool in his stomach. Drawing in a shaky breath, he reached back with his right hand and laid it on the firm curve of Ryeowook’s butt in an effort to pull those boxer-clad hips forward.

 

 

'Ryeowook-ah...Ryeowook-ah, I want you,' he murmured, a little less softly, because it was suddenly very true.

 

 

Ryeowook didn't answer, but he allowed Donghae to pull his hips forward, and his hand drifted down Donghae's torso, fingertips tracing the sparse trail of hair that began hardly an inch above his waistband.

 

 

There was something different about semi-conscious Ryeowook’s hands.

 

 

Donghae knew, because Ryeowook touched him _a lot,_ but _..._ in a professional capacity.

 

 

Donghae liked having Ryeowook’s hands on him, and was perversely aroused by it precisely because Ryeowook was so calm and detached in a professional context.

 

 

But even when Donghae turned those massages into something mildly erotic in his head, for Ryeowook, he suspected, it was still mostly professional. Even during last night’s massage, in spite of Donghae’s nakedness and their extraprofessional bond, Ryeowook had been somehow... _cool_...about their contact.

 

 

This, though: this was a genuinely intimate gesture. It had Donghae breathing shaky breaths and trying (in vain) not to get a boner.

 

 

Ryeowook responded to Donghae’s tightened grip on his ass by pushing his hips forward, and as the tip of his dick pressed between Donghae’s butt cheeks, warm lips pressed against his neck. Lips that parted to be replaced by the firm but gentle clasp of Ryeowook's teeth, an unfamiliar, primal gesture, and the hot wet curl of his tongue.

 

 

Donghae would never, ever admit it, but he whimpered.

 

 

Yes, there was something different about a semi-conscious Ryeowook.

 

 

They began to move together, dry-rutting slowly, the interruption of boxers and boxer-briefs almost enjoyable as the slip of cotton against cotton generated a soft friction between them. Donghae wasn’t sure how long they ground against each other, but he knew when it had been long enough, and drew away to hastily remove his underwear. Ryeowook did the same, the offending articles lost somewhere in the sheets (to be located three days later, at the foot of the bed, when Donghae would get his foot stuck in one the leg of Ryeowook’s boxers and declare himself trapped forever).

 

 

Donghae pressed himself back against Ryeowook’s body again, revelling at the sensations of skin on skin and the coarseness of Ryeowook’s pubic hair against his ass. It took him a little effort to resolve not to be ticklish.

 

 

Ryeowook reached over Hae with one arm to grab the massage oil on Hae’s side of the bed, his mouth too close to Donghae’s ear as he did so. Hae shivered, dropping back against the pillows and closing his eyes, his arousal now coiling in his stomach like a restless snake. He didn’t try to look at Ryeowook: he was happy to just lean against him. Ryeowook slid his left arm back under Hae’s neck, kissing the exposed side of Donghae’s throat softly, and his right hand traced an oily path down Hae’s spine, all the way to his tailbone.

 

 

‘I don’t know what I’m doing, hyung,’ he said into Donghae’s neck, and Donghae smiled at the irony: the virgin doing the reassuring.

 

 

‘I trust you,’ he said simply.

 

 

It was enough reassurance, it seemed, because a moment later one warm fingertip was nudging their slick way into his ass crack, sliding and stroking and coaxing. Hae breathed deeply, and with his concentration and Ryeowook’s attentiveness, their combined efforts convinced his body to contravene instinct and let Ryeowook’s finger inside him. It was only to the first knuckle to begin with, but gradually they synchronised everything, up to and including their breathing, and Ryeowook gently slid another finger in. He began to work them, in and out, with slow pulsations, his lips and teeth toying with Donghae’s earlobe and throat, working to soothe and distract him.

 

 

Donghae wasn’t sure if he was more aroused by the sensations of Ryeowook in and around his body, or the man’s gentleness and patience.

 

 

Everything, mainly.

 

 

After a little while, Ryeowook withdrew to the first knuckle to pour more massage oil around his fingers; the sensation of it as it slid into Donghae’s asshole was cold and strangely pleasant, he decided, pushing his hips back onto the waiting fingers. Ryeowook let out a small choked noise as he did so, which reminded Donghae of the fact that Ryeowook was making a noble effort to hold out for him, but as he heard the slick squishing sound of Ryeowook’s fingers sliding back into him, his stomach turned in loops, his heart rate almost doubled, and he felt more than ready to try the real deal.

 

 

‘Now,’ he grunted, and Ryeowook didn’t object. He pulled out, and Donghae felt extraordinarily hollow. Only for a moment, though, because Ryeowook’s patience was clearly being tested, and it took him bare milliseconds to slather himself with oil. Then he pushed the tip of his cock into Donghae, and Donghae himself was surprised by the speed at which his formerly reluctant anal passage had adapted to the proposed changes. There was barely any resistance at all: Ryeowook slid into him until Donghae could feel the other man’s balls against his ass cheeks. He closed his eyes as his body pulsed, threatening to resist the intrusion, but Ryeowook felt it and twitched his hips, and suddenly everything was awesome. _Awesome_.

 

 

‘Oh, _daebak_ ,’ he heard himself say.

 

 

Ryeowook laughed breathlessly in response, and began to rock their bodies together, his cock buried deep inside of Hae, nudging his prostate with every jerk of his hips, and Donghae could have cried with pleasure.

 

 

The sudden need to have Ryeowook harder in him was urgent and unexpected, and he could only express it by twisting onto his front. By some miracle, though, Ryeowook understood, and stilled himself, half-in and half-out of Hae’s body.

 

 

‘On your knees, hyung,’ he said, his voice so thick with lust that it was like a physical blow, and Donghae was only too happy to oblige, taking his weight onto his arms with his head still on the pillow. As he lifted his ass into the air. Ryeowook moved with him, kneeling behind him, the sweat on his thighs mixing with the sweat on Hae’s straining hamstrings, and he began to thrust again, harder now, but it was easier for Hae to take him in. He couldn’t think, he could barely breathe, but he loved it: loved the feeling of Ryeowook’s dick moving in and out of him, the wet sounds that went with it, the burning in his arms and thighs as he absorbed the impact, and Ryeowook’s weight; and most importantly Ryeowook’s hands, holding him so tightly at the hips that they competed with his cock for strongest sensation in Donghae’s awareness.

 

 

That was until one of those hands crept to Donghae’s dick, untended all this time, and indeed unnoticed until Ryeowook made it impossible to notice much else, enfolding him with a close, slick grip, his hands still oily from before, and jerking him off to the rhythm his own hips were making. Donghae felt the arousal in his belly snap tight and saw white behind his eyelids as he came all over the sheets with a strangled moan. Ryeowook was two deep thrusts behind him, and came with a shudder and a sigh.

 

 

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing heavily, as Ryeowook’s cock softened. He pulled out carefully and wrapped his hands around Donghae’s waist, rolling over and pulling him down alongside him.

 

 

So they finished the morning how they’d started it: with Donghae as the little spoon.

 

 

But it wasn't until Ryeowook pressed the line of his lips against the back of Donghae's neck again and murmured 'You're perfect' when he realised that all of that had happened with barely a word passing between them--nothing had needed to be said.


	42. Good friends

The first time that Donghae realised things were not going to be easy, on a professional level, was the following week; the first time Ryeowook ever even went to the club.

 

 

He was there for his interview, and Donghae, who was at practice, saw him coming in, but only from a distance. A few of them—himself, Dongwoo, Sungyeol, Hyukjae, and Yunho—were clomping, in their spikes, from the change rooms to the field, when he caught a glimpse of that unmistakeable mop of dark hair and the small pale face: Ryeowook, slipping in through the doors at the main entrance.

 

 

The club had a slightly unusual layout, with panes of glass separating rooms and corridors. Everything that happened on the ground floor was pretty high visibility, so Ryeowook saw Donghae, too, and smiled, raising a shy hand in a diluted response to his excited waving.

 

 

Yunho happened to be immediately behind Donghae, at his shoulder.

 

 

He observed the encounter in silence, but as they passed through the doors onto the oval, leaned forward to say:

 

 

‘So, that’s what your magical physio looks like, huh?’

 

 

Donghae tried to glance sideways at his hyung, unable to read his tone. He tripped into Hyukjae, though, so he never caught a glimpse of Yunho’s facial expression, except for a smile and a playful shove as he ran past onto the field.

 

 

What was in that look?

 

 

Discernment?

 

 

Understanding?

 

 

It gave him pause, because there was definitely…a twinkle in Yunho's eye.

 

 

Inexplicably, he remembered how subdued the otherwise virile and compelling Yunho would become in front of that big-eyed guy with floppy hair and the ears that kind of stuck out.

 

 

Was it…was it possible that he and Yunho had more in common than their ferocious country dialects?

 

 

‘Come on, Donghae! Don’t just stand there!’ Yunho yelled, and Donghae forced himself to move forward and get on with things.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Who was that?’ asked Siwon, conversationally—a general question to the locker room as they changed after practice.

 

 

‘Who was who?’

 

 

‘The guy with the grey jacket. I’ve never seen him before.’

 

 

Choi Minho, who had originally responded to the question, shrugged and resumed packing his bag.

 

 

‘No idea.’

 

 

Siwon really liked _knowing things_ , Donghae had learned—he liked knowing all the gossip and goings on, and there was nothing worse in his mind than being out of the loop.

 

 

‘Kind of…short,’ Siwon continued, apparently determined to solve the mystery, ‘And like, I guess…you could say… _pretty._ You'd have to say pretty. Thought he was a girl until I heard him talking _._ ’ He huffed a laugh. ‘ _Definitely_ didn’t look like an _athlete_ , anyway, if you know what I mean.’

 

 

He flopped a hand in a loose-wristed gesture that Donghae didn't understand.

 

 

Listening idly as he sat on the bench to towel off his hair, the description was not ringing any bells.

 

 

‘Ah, you mean the new physiotherapist?’ said Kibum, appearing from a cloud of steam. He had an uncanny knack for _actually_ knowing things, in a natural and unaffected way—like the reality of what Siwon could only aspire to be.

 

 

Siwon, who had been drying his face, lowered his towel to reveal a perplexed expression. ‘A new physiotherapist? Captain— _Captain_ —’ he said, raising his voice to project it into Yunho’s shower cubicle, ‘Did you already know about this?’

 

 

The sound of running water stopped, and Yunho also emerged, one towel around his hips and another around his shoulders. ‘About what?’

 

 

‘The new physiotherapist,’ said Siwon and Kibum, in unison, and something in Donghae’s brain finally clicked.

 

 

‘Oh—he’s mine,’ he said, abruptly, without thinking.

 

 

Several pairs of curious eyes snapped in his direction from various parts of the room.

 

 

‘For…for my knee,’ he added.

 

 

‘Oh,’ said Siwon, his mouth turning upside down in a strange expression of bemusement-cum-approval, ‘A physiotherapist, huh…Fair enough.’ He launched into a discussion of the state of his own knees, after that, and an evaluation of a string of physiotherapists he had had, and his ongoing dissatisfaction with them.

 

 

The inquisitive mood of the room diffused, and Donghae became an idle listener again, right up until the point where Siwon suddenly said, ‘You know what, since he’s joined the club now, maybe he can massage _me_ , too.’

 

 

Donghae’s brain did not give him so much as a millisecond’s notice—the word ‘No’ came out of his mouth suddenly and rather loudly, surprising everyone in there, including himself.

 

 

A hushed silence fell in the echoing space, broken only by the sound of a tap somewhere, dripping.

 

 

Hyukjae, at Donghae’s side, recovered his senses first. He shot Donghae a warning look, and covered his outburst with a quick explanation.

 

 

‘I don’t think he’d have the time for that, Siwon-ssi…he’s doing a PhD, too. He only does part-time physiotherapy as a favour to Donghae.’

 

 

‘Wh-you know him too then, Hyukjae?’

 

 

‘Ah…yeah, he’s my cousin.’

 

 

‘Oh.’

 

 

There was another protracted silence as Siwon digested this. He looked annoyed, for a moment, but then seemed to accept it, nodding slowly. ‘Gee…small world, isn’t it,’ he said, eventually. ‘I guess you must all be pretty…close, then, yeah? I guess that…makes sense.’

 

 

Still trying to understand exactly what had just happened, Donghae’s mind lingered on the way Siwon had described Ryeowook. Now that he had realised exactly whom Siwon had been describing, and the way that he had casually just assumed he was _entitled_ to have anything to do with him, he was belatedly getting kind of pissed off.

 

 

_He’s not short,_ he wanted to say. _And he’s not “pretty”. He’s fucking beautiful. And he’s plenty manly,_ _and he’s never touching_ you.

 

 

But Hyukjae, as usual, seemed to be able to read his mind, and laid a warning hand on his arm.

 

 

‘Don’t,’ he said, softly, and Donghae forced himself to simmer down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T GET THE TONE OF THIS DAMN CHAPTER RIGHT. :((((((
> 
> I guess I will just have to come back and make changes. For now, I just want to keep up the momentum and move towards the ending!!


	43. Devil

After that, Donghae had understood that he should be careful with Ryeowook, and in more than one way.

 

 

On the one hand, there was being careful _of_ Ryeowook. Donghae knew that what they had was still a very small and fragile thing. There was no doubt in his mind that his feelings for Ryeowook were reciprocated, but he knew that the other man had some lingering doubts about their relationship.

 

 

Once or twice, he even voiced a couple of them, although shy and apologetic.

 

 

Each time, Donghae had assured the younger man of his honest intentions, and affirmed that they were in no rush.

 

 

And it was true. Donghae was not in a hurry. He would win Ryeowook’s trust in time.

 

 

What he didn’t say, for fear of coming on too strong, was that he could imagine spending the rest of his life with him.

 

 

He kept that particular piece of information to himself. It was too soon to share it.

 

 

Instead, Donghae learned to speak with care, and to give and take as Ryeowook’s moods required. The younger man was a paradox, his emotional stability still easily shaken. To anyone else, his changeability—sometimes wanting to be held, but more often, during waking hours, limiting their physical contact to a professional capacity—might seem whimsical or inconsiderate, but Donghae was patient, and let Ryeowook push him away, because whenever he did, it would eventually be followed by an apology; a kiss; a moment alone in which Ryeowook would lift the corner of the curtain and admit that he was simply still afraid of the depth of the thing unfolding between them.

 

 

‘I feel like I don’t deserve you,’ he had whispered, once, as they had held each other in quiet darkness, and Donghae had known from his tone that although it wasn’t true, it was something Ryeowook _believed_ to be true.

 

 

So, with a little help from Hyukjae, he was trying damn hard to be there for the younger man, without being overbearing.

 

 

On the other hand, there was something about that incident in the locker room that had made Donghae realise he should be very, very careful about how he behaved _with_ Ryeowook in front of others.

 

 

The only person who knew what was really between him and Ryeowook was Hyukjae, and Donghae knew that it would be best if it stayed that way.

 

 

His suspicions were compounded one night, nearly a month later, when the team members went out to drink.

 

 

Donghae was not much of a drinker. He didn’t have the constitution for it, nor the inclination. But he went along with the team members anyway, because he enjoyed spending time with them and getting to know them. For the most part, they were warm and kind people, and they knew all kinds of things about the world.

 

 

Same-sex marriage, for instance.

 

 

Donghae had never heard of it, nor known that it was possible, but an American news channel was playing on a large screen in the corner of the bar, and Kibum, who spoke some English, was translating on the fly when the regular broadcast was suddenly interrupted by images of men and women and rainbow flags and a mood of celebration.

 

 

Seated to Donghae’s right, Kibum (affectionately nicknamed Key by the rest of the team), apparently unphased by the images of men kissing men and women kissing women, said, ‘Well then. Same-sex marriage is now legal in America. Not that it means much in Korea.’ and held up his beer, presumably in solidarity with the celebrating figures on screen.

 

 

Siwon, who was seated to Donghae’s left and was well into his cups, leaned over Donghae, shaking his head and scowling.

 

 

‘Don’t raise a toast to _that_ , Kibum. Thank God it’ll never be possible in _Korea_.’

 

 

Kibum just laughed dismissively and swigged his beer, sighing with satisfaction before replying, in his casually opinionated way: ‘I believe in love, Siwon-ssi. I don’t think gender has anything to do with it. Who you love is between you and God. Doesn’t God love all his creations, anyway?’

 

 

A curious silence had fallen over some of the table as the exchange gained attention.

 

 

Siwon, clearly dissatisfied by Kibum’s answer, leaned back a moment as though recouping before turning large, sad eyes on Donghae.

 

 

‘Oh, Donghae-yah,’ he said, ‘These are terrible times we live in…Women, Donghae, _women_! Men and women!’ He punctuated this rather abstract statement with a shake of his own beer glass, then muttered, ‘Marriage is between men and women.’

 

 

Donghae was uncomfortably sure that he knew where this was going. The moderate views of Kibum, on one side, gave him small comfort, but the question was no less awkward when Siwon slurred it at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders:

 

 

‘You’re a good-looking guy, Donghae-yah. You’re a _man_. _You_ must be looking for a girl, right? _Do_ you have a girlfriend? Do you want a girlfriend? See anyone you like here?’

 

 

Donghae tried to hide his discomfort by smiling and filling his face with juice as he made the pretense of glancing around the dimly-lit room.

 

 

‘Sure,’ he said, hedging, and trying not to think of the way that eye contact with Ryeowook made him feel, ‘There are plenty of pretty girls! But I’ve already got someone I like, Siwon-ssi.’

 

 

Siwon seemed satisfied with this reply, slapping him on the back in a congratulatory gesture. ‘See! See! That’s good. You should get married, Donghae!’

 

 

‘Oh, I’d like to,’ said Donghae.

 

 

_Maybe one day. In America._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ?????!!!!!!


	44. A Boat Tied to a Pier

Yunho was sitting across the table from Kibum, Donghae and Siwon. It wasn’t like he’d set out to observe the former’s reactions to the latter, but his position offered an interesting vantage point, and he was intrigued by what he saw.

 

 

For starters, the dynamic between Siwon and Kibum was actually kind of entertaining. Yunho had no idea which way Kim Kibum swang, but he had always liked the younger man for his brash humanism, and he liked it even more when it got up Siwon’s nose, like now—challenging Siwon’s religious hypocrisy in a way that was both fairly gentle and brutally irrefutable.

 

 

Siwon, sitting beside Donghae, and definitely on his way to drunk, wriggled out of this conundrum by turning his attentions to Donghae, waving his glass around and stubbornly professing his belief in heterosexual marriage.

 

 

He followed this with probing questions about Donghae’s love life, and completely failed to notice the subtleties of Donghae’s response.

 

 

Yunho did not.

 

 

Donghae's jaw tightened, and a small crease formed between his eyebrows, and, most notably, the young man from Mokpo physically drew away from Siwon, towards the ambivalence and safety of Kibum’s side.

 

 

‘There are plenty of pretty girls! But I’ve already got someone I like, Siwon-ssi,’ he said, too brightly.

 

 

It was a subtle confirmation of what Yunho had already suspected.

 

 

Not that he minded—far from it.

 

 

Instead, his protective feelings toward Donghae intensified.

 

 

He recognised the deliberate vagueness in Donghae’s tone all too well. It was the same tone that Yunho himself would use whenever his parents asked about his love life. But Donghae was still awkward, and unpractised in his attempt at deflection. With each reply, he had hesitated just a moment too long, and although Siwon didn’t notice, Yunho bore witness to the faint anger and dissidence in the younger man’s body language; the change in his tone; the evasive language—‘someone I like’.

 

 

Yunho would wager that that _someone_ was not a woman.

 

 

In fact, he would happily bank his entire annual income on a certain dark-eyed, sharp-featured physiotherapist meaning a little bit more to Donghae than the position description implied.

 

 

Again—this was fine by Yunho. The therapist—Kim Ryeowook, was it?—was for Donghae only, and Yunho didn’t see any feasible conflict of interest in a physiotherapist being slightly more intimate with a client than customary. At least, not when there was only one client. In fact, it was a rare instance where stepping over the professional line might even help the therapeutic relationship: nothing like his own imbroglio with Shim Jr.

 

 

‘See! See! That’s good. You should get married, Donghae!’ Siwon was saying, sounding relieved.

 

 

‘Oh, I’d like to,’ Donghae answered, and Yunho watched with pity as an expression, somewhere between relief and self-disgust, and all too familiar, crossed over the open face of the boy from Mokpo.

 

 

Yunho wanted to reach out to him, somehow. He wanted to tell him that it would be alright. That he wasn’t alone. That they wouldn’t have to live in secret forever. But he wasn’t sure, not about any of it.

 

 

What could he say?

 

 

In some ways, Changmin, the Immovable Object, was right. The world was _not_ quick to change, and they did have to live in it in the meantime. The number of public figures who were publically known to be gay in Korea could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and they had suffered for it, personally and professionally.

 

 

But still. _Still._

 

 

There was something about smiling and laughing and endlessly saying ‘I have _someone_ I like’ that just didn’t _sit right_ with Yunho.

 

 

Clearly, it was enough for some. It was enough for _Changmin_ , and yes, Yunho could understand the reasons that people would choose to live in silence.

 

 

But it made him feel kind of…unclean. He didn’t enjoy lying by omission. Of all the things in the world, surely _love_ was something to be celebrated. Surely _love_ , of all things, should not be a dirty secret.

 

 

Thoughts like that, of course, led to deeper concerns about his relationship with Changmin, and uncomfortable questions, like _Do I love him_?

 

 

Yunho was too tired and too jaded to begin thinking about that particular question today.

 

 

He didn’t really know the answer.

 

 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

 

 

But in reality, it was a little beside the point, because it wasn’t the relationship with Changmin that was really causing him pain—he’d realised that soon after they’d fought, that time in the hotel room.

 

 

No, what really hurt, and what made him feel truly ashamed, was hiding something from the world, and not because he wanted to, but because he felt he should.

 

 

And how long for?

 

 

Would he hide forever, and watch while Donghae, even more guileless than himself, was battered by waves of thoughtless commentary from someone who thought they were a good Christian?

 

 

Would it be up to gentle bystanders with courage, like Kibum, to be Donghae’s unwitting guardian, while Yunho himself, despite _knowing_ Donghae’s pain and discomfort, sat by, unspeaking?

 

 

It was not the action he wanted to take. He would dream of doing differently, later. But for now, he broke the uncomfortable silence by tapping his glass with a spoon until he got everybody’s attention, and pitched them with his grand plan for the outreach program.


	45. Don't Wake Me Up

It seemed like Donghae had hardly blinked before his entire first season as a professional football player was over.

 

 

The team didn’t win, but placed second on the competition ladder, and management seemed satisfied with the outcome.

 

 

More importantly, in Donghae’s view, Yunho seemed satisfied. The man had inspired confidence in the role of captain to begin with, and over the course of season had also come to be a good friend to Donghae: always good-humoured and patient and ready to lend a hand, no matter how banal the favour.

 

 

Even Ryeowook, who did not warm to people easily, seemed to like him.

 

 

(Though honestly, Donghae had felt a slight twinge of jealously when Ryeowook had casually observed the older man was good-looking.)

 

 

Anyway, not only had the team placed highly in the competition, but, perhaps more impressively, Donghae had survived the full season without any major accidents. Not once had he needed Ryeowook’s emergency services. Not once.

 

 

In reality, this probably had less to do with any improvements in Donghae’s actual playing style than it did with the fact that Ryeowook had become his sentinel. By now, he was more like Donghae’s shadow than a part-time physiotherapist: supervising silently, intervening wordlessly, and forcibly improving his habits and posture; even attending their mock games on the weekends, ‘just in case’, or ‘just to check’ some particular thing.

 

 

Of course, he was making a tremendous difference to Donghae as an athlete while he was at it. Donghae had never been so fit or played so well before—and though only Donghae and Hyukjae could know the extent of the difference the younger man’s constant presence was making, Ryeowook clearly took professional pride in his creation.

 

 

Indeed, simply by being there and doing what he knew he needed to do, Ryeowook had, in a totally natural and unaffected way, made it painstakingly clear to anybody looking on that Donghae’s body belonged to him. He treated Donghae as though he owned him, and after these few months, the way that he would reach for him, regardless of what was going on around them, kneading some muscle or helping to stretch another, was so commonplace that it attracted no attention whatsoever from the other players. It was so automatic and unremarkable that even an outsider probably could not have thought their degree of closeness strange.

 

 

They had fallen into something very intimate very easily. Donghae just sort of accepted—even expected—Ryeowook’s hands to be close to him, whenever they were in touching distance. And Ryeowook took his duty of care towards Donghae very seriously.

 

 

Donghae certainly didn’t mind. It was almost second nature for both of them: for Ryeowook to touch, and Donghae to feel. And although he never forgotten that night when Siwon had…made his opinions known, his professional relationship with Ryeowook both protected them and allowed them to become closer.

 

 

That was their professional life, but in their personal life, too, there had been gradual changes.

 

 

For instance, although it was never planned that way, it was now habit that took him to Ryeowook’s door after gym, to use his shower and then rest his head on the younger man’s knee while he read his heavy, expensive textbooks. He’d close his eyes, and Ryeowook would stroke his hair or his shoulder, his fingers drawn to Donghae’s skin as though by some irresistible magnetism. Donghae would usually end those nights in Ryeowook’s bed—and they now far outnumbered the ones when he went back to the flat he supposedly shared with Hyukjae.

 

 

It wasn’t perfect. Ryeowook still had his walls up, and there were definitely places Donghae was not allowed to see. The parents, for instance, he suspected he would never be invited to meet. Then again, nor did he particularly want to.

 

 

And slowly but surely, some of the walls _were_ coming down. There was one evening in particular, about a week ago, which Donghae would never forget. He’d let himself in to Ryeowook’s apartment to find it dark and deserted, and decided to make something resembling an evening meal, and wait until Ryeowook got home and surprise him with food if he needed it.

 

 

When he did eventually stumble through the door, he’d been roaring drunk, and bewildered to find Donghae on his couch, but also deliriously and adorably happy.

 

 

‘Hyung,’ he’d slurred, collapsing in a heap of limbs on top of him, ‘I told Yesung about you. About…me and you. About us.’

 

 

The smile had faltered a little as something serious and sweet entered his eyes, struggling to focus on Donghae’s, and he’d reddened.

 

 

Then, shyly, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed: ‘I said…I told him we’re a couple.’

 

 

Donghae stroked his lover’s back with both hands, that tender feeling welling up inside him like it always did when Ryeowook let his officious demeanour drop away and showed the soft one.

 

 

‘Well of course,’ Donghae had said, smiling so broadly that it almost hurt. ‘Of course we are.’

 

 

‘He said…’

 

 

Ryeowook trailed off, forgetting what he was going to say as he became distracted by pulling Donghae’s singlet aside to expose a nipple, pinching at it lazily.

 

 

‘He said…?’

 

 

‘Oh. Uhm. Yeah…yeah. He said, good. And…and he’s proud of us. And he likes _you_.’

 

 

A strong finger poked Donghae aggressively in the chest, by way of punctuation.

 

 

‘And…I do too,’ Ryeowook had concluded, drowsily.

 

 

‘I like you. We're a couple now, Lee Donghae.’

 

 

 

 

But the peace could only last so long, and things were about to fall apart.


	46. Komplikated

The collapse began slowly.

 

 

The interview was of the type Changmin described as ‘dangerous’—by which he said he meant that the questions were open-ended.

 

 

‘I wish they would just script it,’ he’d muttered that morning, shaving in Yunho’s bathroom.

 

 

‘Gee, thanks,’ Yunho had retorted, pretending to be hurt; ‘Not _all_ athletes are morons, you know.’

 

 

Changmin had given him a look so grim that Yunho did not have the courage to find the blob of shaving cream moving in and out of his nostril amusing.

 

 

‘I know,’ he’d said. ‘That’s why Kim Kibum will be there.’

 

 

There were actually five of them scheduled to attend the studio recording and represent the team: Yunho, of course, being the captain; Siwon, who was arguably the public face of football in Korea; Kibum, for his easy demeanour and quick wit; and Donghae and Hyukjae, since Changmin was determined to build up their media profiles, and was trying to ease them into it by having them participate in any televised group appearances, rather than putting them out on their own.

 

 

Yunho didn’t mind doing tv interviews, but he liked doing them with Siwon and Kibum, especially, since they were both naturally extroverted, and dominated the conversation—which meant that after the first few questions, which were usually directed specifically at him, Yunho could sit back and let the others take centre stage.

 

 

Hyukjae, it turned out, was quite charming once he got warmed up—he and Kibum were an excellent combination. Changmin, standing off to the side behind the cameras and PDs and assistants and so on, was pleased—Yunho could tell, even from here, that his blank expression was marred by a crumple at the corner of his left eye, revealing his satisfaction at the way the two younger men were generating good tv.

 

 

Donghae was not quite so socially adept. He just looked perpetually confused, but Hyukjae spoke about him enough to make it seem as though he was included, and occasionally spoke on his behalf as well.

 

 

Everything went swimmingly, right up until one of the interviewers asked Siwon, ‘And what about the relationships between the team members, Siwon-ssi? Can you tell us a little bit about how you all get along? Do you ever fight about anything?’

 

 

Siwon shook his head. ‘I can’t say that,’ he said, good-humouredly. ‘We’re only human, after all. We can’t agree on everything.’

 

 

Noticing the way that Siwon glanced at Kibum, the other interviewer jumped on the statement.

 

 

‘Oho!’ he said. ‘What do you mean by that, Siwon-ssi? What kind of differences of opinion?’

 

 

‘Ah, no, nothing really,’ Siwon hedged, his tone still perfectly congenial. ‘Just differences of opinion, you see. Yes, there are just some differences of opinion about certain matters.’

 

 

Yunho shifted, and cleared his throat, to get Siwon’s attention, but the other man was focussing—deliberately or otherwise—on the interviewers.

 

 

‘Yes, but what _kinds_ of things do you disagree on?’

 

 

Yunho sighed, and sat back. It was too late. The train had left the station.

 

 

‘Let’s just call them…religious differences.’

 

 

‘Religious differences?’ echoed the female interviewer, wide-eyed in a way which showed that she was well-trained to be a specific type of inquisitive. ‘You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Siwon-ssi?’

 

 

‘Right, right,’ Siwon agreed, nodding.

 

 

‘Do you go to church?’

 

 

‘Oh, yes. Every Sunday.’

 

 

‘So, what are these religious differences?’

 

 

Siwon’s gaze darted perceptibly towards Kibum, but he just shook his head, smiling slightly with an air of righteous impunity. ‘Let’s just say I believe that God created this world for the children of Adam and Eve. I can’t wait to get married and have a family of my own, just as God intended. I don’t think I need to say more than that.’

 

 

The interviewers looked slightly confused, for a moment, before latching on to the mention of marriage, and turning the interview in their favourite direction: relationship gossip. And after Siwon expertly deflected their questions about whom he was dating, they turned their attention to Donghae.

 

 

‘And let’s ask a question of our new friend, Donghae-ssi…Dongha-ssi, do _you_ have anyone you like?’

 

 

The question was asked in a playful, joking tone; they didn’t seriously expect him to reply. But Donghae was too green, and knew no better—he reddened, and answered honestly.

 

 

‘Y-yes…there is.’

 

 

‘Are you a _couple_?’

 

 

‘Yes,’ said Donghae, warmth creeping into his tone. ‘Yes, we are.’

 

 

'And what kind of girl is she?'

 

 

_Oh, no._

 

 

Yunho had opened his mouth to interrupt, but Hyukjae beat him to it, with a well-timed joke about Donghae's social skills. As he did so, they made eye contact, and shared a moment of silent understanding.

 

 

Yunho nodded gratefully, and let Hyukjae steer the conversation into safer waters, with the unwitting assistance of Kibum.

 

 

His gaze darted to Changmin.

 

 

He already knew. Siwon's dig had been subtle, but it had still been too much. Everyone in the room was on edge now. There were too many undercurrents swirling around too close to the surface, and everyone had become awkward, whether they had a conscious reason or not.

 

 

Standing with his arms crossed and a hand over his mouth, Changmin was looking faintly green--and he didn't even _know_ about Donghae yet.

 

 

Things escalated from there.

 

 

Within days, there were online forums entirely devoted to aggressive speculation about the nature of the religious differences in the team.

 

 

Within a week, magazines were publishing headlines like _What’s amiss in the Seoul football team?_

 

 

Profiles were constructed of the probable religious beliefs of most of the team members, and there was suddenly an astonishing amount of commentary—some fact, some fiction—from the public.

 

 

Within two weeks, the rumours had begun to spiral out of control, ranging wildly from the tame to the absurd. And slowly but surely, the rumours began to take a sexual turn. Illegitimate love-children and secret relationships with celebrities seemed to be the most popular theories.

 

 

So it was only a matter of time before sexuality itself crept into public discourse: by way of the “absurd” filter, as far as the general public was concerned, but it crept in nonetheless, in hushed tones and curious whispers.

 

 

Changmin, of course, was locked down, in damage-control mode.

 

 

Yunho had hardly seen him since the interview had gone to air, until one night when the younger man showed up at his flat, looking exhausted.


	47. Komplikated (II)

Changmin knew the code to Yunho’s flat—had done for two months now.

 

 

Yunho heard him let himself in, but didn’t bother looking up. He was on the couch, re-watching the footage of the interview.

 

 

He'd become almost obsessed with in since it had blown up in the media. You might say that he had developed a sick fascination with it. He’d watched it so many times he’d lost count, once for each team member and then twice as many times again at least, seeking out the minutest details of every second of the awkward…perhaps “train wreck” was too extreme, as a description. More like a boat with a small hole in it; a hole that let in _just_ more water than those on board could bail out.

 

 

There was Siwon, looking smug and self-righteous as he made his homophobia public in a subtle and ruthless way.

 

 

There was Kibum, looking slightly annoyed, knowing that the remark was directed at him, and resenting the hobbling of television, though he had unleashed an irritated stream of colourful and childish insults in Siwon’s direction (though not in Siwon’s actual presence) after the filming was over.

 

 

And there was Hyukjae, who, in the moments after Siwon’s comments, looked first startled, then perturbed, and throughout the remainder of the interview proceeded to ignore Siwon in a way that almost— _almost_ —made Yunho feel a little better, only…only next to him was Donghae.

 

 

Donghae, looking lost and confused, and, as Siwon’s camouflaged hate left his mouth, also _guilty_ —his eyes darting to the other man’s profile with an expression that was unmistakeably shame.

 

 

The three younger men were seated in a row, to Siwon’s left.

 

 

On his right, there was Yunho. And compared with the varied but clearly uncomfortable expressions of the other three, Yunho just looked…vacant.

 

 

He’d watched the footage over and over again, studying himself more closely each time, and searching desperately for a flicker of disapproval or discomfort. Something. Anything. But there was nothing there. His mask was completely flawless. Even the way he had cleared his throat, _before_ Siwon really let loose, had been performed to perfection.

 

 

In short, he had affected that he did not care very, very well, and now he was experiencing rather intense regret for it—sorry, most of all, to Donghae.

 

 

The thing was, Donghae still didn’t know that Yunho knew about him. Hyukjae did, but Donghae himself...? Probably not. And now, Yunho was pretty sure he'd lost the chance to bring it up: now, Donghae had been suddenly and brutally subjected to the dangers of the media.

 

 

Worse still, the brutality had not been perpetrated by the media, but by one of their own teammates. And Yunho had done nothing to stop it.

 

 

Changmin entered the flat wordlessly, dropping his weight onto the couch beside Yunho and taking his hand.

 

 

He laced their fingers together, effectively trapping the one hand, and reaching over to claim the remote control with the other.

 

 

‘You can’t change anything now,’ he said.

 

 

These words of comfort were not expected from the man whose job was literally to clean up the mess, and Yunho, surprised, turned to look at him.

 

 

‘But Changmin,’ he protested, staring at his own bland expression on the screen, ‘look at me. It looks like I _agree_ with him. I should have _said_ something.’

 

 

Changmin leaned forward and kissed him gently.

 

 

‘I can only say I’m glad you didn’t.’

 

 

He switched off the tv and set the remote aside, rearranging his long limbs and using his physical bulk to push Yunho supine against the sofa, hands on either side of Yunho’s face, engulfing him, as always, with his warmth and his scent.

 

 

There were so many things that Yunho wanted to say. So many things to say: yet none that he felt like he could.

 

 

Between him and Changmin…They could do everything that Yunho had ever wanted. Everything that Yunho wanted, Changmin would give him: sex, affection, conversation, his dream to start an outreach program, previously confined to the realms of fantasy—everything.

 

 

With the exception of the Big Thing.

 

 

And it had dragged on Yunho’s conscience _before_ the interview, but now it was more like a ball and chain.

 

 

Yunho felt certain that this thing with Changmin was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 

 

Strange, then, that it was not also the most personally fulfilling. Even when he was wrapped in Changmin’s warmth and comfort and unexpected kind words, still there was this crushing knowledge that this thing, which Yunho was slowly but surely convinced he must start to call love, remained a secret.

 

 

As though reading his mind, Changmin said, ‘I know it’s hard for you, Yunho. I just want to keep us safe. I want to keep my job. And I want you to be able to achieve everything that you hope to.’


	48. Komplikated (III)

They were in bed when Changmin’s phone rang.

 

 

The younger man glanced at the screen, and, with a flash of recognition, leapt out of bed to answer the call, disappearing into the loungeroom.

 

 

When he came back, his expression was grim.

 

 

Yunho propped himself up on an elbow, still half asleep, but awake enough to be concerned by the look on the younger man’s face.

 

 

‘What’s wrong?’

 

 

‘Someone spoke to the press.’

 

 

‘About what?’

 

 

‘Someone who claimed to be closely associated with us…They gave anonymous information to the press. That there’s somebody gay on the team.’

 

 

Yunho tried to ignore the small part of his mind that said _Good._ The rest of him had enough sense to know that despite _his_ dreams and hopes for transparency, this was not, in fact, good. Not for the team. Not for Changmin. Not even necessarily for him.

 

 

‘Oh,’ he said, instead, dully, as his brain tried to come to grips with the news.

 

 

Changmin had plunged his face into one of his hands and was massaging his forehead, the other still clutching his phone.

 

 

‘It's just a gossip rag running the story at this stage. Nothing to worry about. As long as no one fans the flames. Only…what… _who_?’

 

 

He pulled his hand away, looking at Yunho, but not really looking at Yunho, his mind visibly turning at top speed.

 

 

‘It could have been anyone,’ he said, staring, and speaking mostly to himself. ‘It could have been someone from outside the team who hates someone on the team. It could just be an act of spite. But…the media feeds on this kind of tripe. They'll be _waiting_ for something like this.

 

 

‘And…If…if someone on the team actually did this…’

 

 

He trailed off, a muscle in his jaw working. His eyes looked bleak and cold in the blueish light of his phone. Yunho switched on the bedside lamp, but the warm light didn’t make quite as much difference as he’d hoped.

 

 

Changmin was still looking at Yunho, but Yunho was sure that Changmin was not actually _seeing_ him.

 

 

For his own part, without offering an explanation, his mind had unhesitatingly dished up a crystal-clear image of Choi Siwon.

 

 

But Changmin and Siwon were…friends. Kind of. Or, they moved in the same circles, anyway. He didn’t want to make Changmin angry, so he didn’t say anything about that.

 

 

Instead, tentatively, he said: ‘What does the article actually say?’

 

 

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Changmin, his voice hollow.

 

 

He disappeared into the loungeroom again, this time turning on the lights.

 

 

Yunho followed him out to see him sat on the couch, his shoulders hunched and his jaw set in a hard line as he started up his laptop.

 

 

He took a seat beside him, and a quick web search turned up the offending article, posted only two hours beforehand.

 

 

**_Soccer, sexuality, scandals:_ **

_It’s official._

_Scoop has insider details on the Seoul soccer team sexuality scandal gripping the nation._

_An informant close to the professional league team, who wishes to remain anonymous, has given Scoop exclusive details behind this scandalous development._

_In a startling turn of events, this may be a deliberate artifice on the part of some of the team members._

_Our source has revealed incriminating evidence that some members of the team are supportive of same-sex marriage, which was recently legalised in the US, despite staunch opposition from traditional family-oriented and church groups._

_Moreover, although some members of the team, such as regular church-goer_ _and prominent social figure Choi Siwon, have made their stance against this type of relationship publically clear, both on television and social media connections, all may not be as it seems in the Seoul team._

 _In a recent interview with five of the Seoul team members on Channel N—, questions about the players’ personal relationships received vague and unclear replies by certain_ _parties, including a new addition to the professional league team_ _from Mokpo._

_In fact, in a shocking development, just last night our source has contacted us to provide us with a photo. Scoop cannot reveal the identity of the two men caught embracing on camera, but the image implies a surprisingly close relationship. Our source has claimed that this photograph is evidence that there is more than a professional relationship between the two men caught on camera._

_Just what is going on in this picture? Who are the men captured in the image?_

_Scoop is enraged that this kind of behaviour is taking place in the community of athletes who are supposed to represent the best and brightest of what Korea has to offer. Is this sort of behaviour we want role modelled for our children? Are these the kind of people we want representing our country? Scoop believes action needs to be taken now!_

 

 

As they finished reading the article, they each sat back against the couch.

 

 

After a long silence, Changmin laughed hollowly.

 

 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘Shit. That was worse than I expected.’

 

 

Yunho felt slightly sick.

 

 

‘A new addition to the team from Mokpo’ was not exactly subtle when there were only two possible candidates, and only one of them had been asked about a personal relationship.

 

 

‘Shit,’ said Changmin, again. ‘So. The men in the photo. That looks remarkably like Lee Donghae’s physiotherapist, doesn’t it.’

 

 

Not a question.

 

 

Yunho nodded.

 

 

‘Making the other man Lee Donghae.’

 

 

‘Yes.’

 

 

‘You…knew about this, didn’t you.’

 

 

An overwhelming sense of defeat was settling over Yunho’s heart. ‘I wasn’t sure. I only suspected.’

 

 

‘Well, shit. A heads-up would have been nice.’

 

 

‘Who the fuck would he tell, Changmin, in a world like this? Why would he tell _me?_ You saw the interview. I look like I don’t give a shit. Worse—I look like I’m on Siwon’s side.’

 

 

The aggression in Yunho’s tone surprised both of them, and Changmin withdrew, scowling, his expression one of anger and denial.

 

 

He closed the lid on the laptop with a snap, and it had a horrible ring of finality.

 

 

‘I think I’d better go, Yunho,’ he said, his tone guarded.

 

 

He got up and went into the bedroom, and emerged again after a few moments, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Covering up.

 

 

‘What will you do, Changmin?’

 

 

Changmin fixed Yunho with his trademark hooded stare. There were emotions in it, but too complex to read; any attempt to do so would be meaningless. The mask was on, and the man concealed. They had been together long enough for Yunho to know the signs.

 

 

‘I have no idea, Yunho. I don’t know how to fix this. I need some time to think.’

 

 

He stooped to pick up his laptop, but did not meet Yunho's eyes.

 

 

'I'll be in touch,' he said. 'Keep your phone on.'

 

 

Then he left.


	49. The Moment

The collapse began slowly, but the crash was at high speed. And it was messy.

 

 

Executive Shim had called Donghae into his office for a meeting that afternoon.

 

 

Initially, Donghae had had no idea what the young executive would need to discuss with him.

 

 

He knew he had been a little awkward and unpracticed in their recent interview, and he knew that there had been very peculiar undercurrents running between his fellow team members therein. Words had been thrown around at a high speed, many of which he had the sense he did not understand the full implications of.

 

 

Particularly what Siwon had said—that had been awkward. But he had tried to play it cool, and hoped that the fact that it was only his third or fourth tv interview appearance might afford him a little leeway.

 

 

Still, he guessed it made sense that Executive Shim would want to talk about it. Only usually, if Shim wanted to see him, he would contact him via Yunho-hyung. So something felt ever so slightly off from the get-go.

 

 

Stranger still, when he entered the office, Shim was already there—and so, sitting across from him, was Ryeowook.

 

 

‘Ah, Donghae-ssi. Thank you for coming. Please, come in. And could you close the door behind you?’

 

 

Shim looked tired, Donghae noticed.

 

 

He was impeccably turned out, as always, but there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, disturbing the usual flawlessness of his countenance.

 

 

Donghae glanced to Ryeowook, trying to put together the parts of the picture before him, but when Ryeowook’s eyes met his, they only reflected his confusion; the younger man’s perpetually pale features perhaps a little whiter and grimmer than usual.

 

 

Donghae did as Shim had asked, and crossed the room to take the chair at Ryeowook’s side.

 

 

Shim looked between them, then sat back in his chair. A slight frown crinkled his brow.

 

 

‘Donghae-ssi. Ryeowook-ssi. Thank you for making the time to come in and meet with me.’

 

 

His tone was stilted; the usual rich timbre a little ragged. It was that, more than anything else, which began to make Donghae nervous.

 

 

‘I’m…not sure if the two of you know why I have asked for this meeting.’

 

 

Donghae could only return Shim’s questioning gaze with a slight shake of the head; he imagined Ryeowook’s expression was similarly blank, because Changmin closed his eyes, as though thinking, and remained that way for a long moment before he began to speak again.

 

 

‘I see,’ he said, eventually. ‘I see. Well, the thing is…recently, there have been some rumours.’

 

 

‘Rumours?’ Ryeowook echoed, sounding puzzled.

 

 

‘It might be better to show rather than tell.’

 

 

Shim brought something up on his tablet, and turned it towards them.

 

 

It was open to an online article, and what first caught Donghae’s attention was the image.

 

 

It was an image of them. Of him and Ryeowook. An image of Donghae hugging Ryeowook.

 

 

Donghae’s face in the image was entirely obscured from view, but Donghae remembered it—remembered pulling Ryeowook into his embrace. He did not remember whether they had just met, or they were parting, but presented with the picture he experienced a visceral memory of the sensations and scents of the moment he’d pulled Ryeowook, resisting halfheartedly, against him.

 

 

The photo had obviously been taken from a distance, and it was poor quality, but this did not change the fact that Ryeowook’s face was in full view.

 

 

‘That’s—’

 

 

‘You.’ Shim’s tired eyes met his evenly. ‘It’s the two of you. And it’s part of an article which speculates on the sexuality of members of the Seoul football team. So the first thing I need to know is: is it true?’

 

 

It was phrased as a question, but there was a look in his eyes that said it all: he already knew.

 

 

Donghae was acutely aware of Ryeowook going stiff and tight beside him.

 

 

After a long pause, the soft honey voice said, ‘I think…perhaps…I should resign.’

 

 

Something had already flickered and been concealed again in the depths of Changmin’s unreadable eyes before the meaning of Ryeowook’s words had fully registered in Donghae’s mind. This was the point at which he stood up, turning halfway, so quickly that he knocked the chair over.

 

 

‘What!? Ryeowook, no—you can’t! I won’t let you. _I’ll_ quit. _I’ll_ resign.’

 

 

But Ryeowook would not look back at him, and Donghae watched with despair as he felt the younger man begin to draw away—the space between them widening, although nobody moved.

 

 

When Ryeowook next spoke, it was with brutal clarity. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Donghae-ssi: you _can’t_ resign. You are _a professional football player_. I, on the other hand—you can easily replace _me._ ’

 

 

Shim interrupted, his full lips pressed together in a thin line as he looked between them. ‘Neither of you are resigning. As the single act that would make anyone who has been implicated look most guilty, that is the _last_ thing we need. And you didn’t answer my question—is it true? Are you – ’

 

 

His sentence was interrupted by the door being thrown open. Ryeowook and Shim wore mirrored expressions of wide-eyed surprise as a familiar voice cracked through the room’s atmosphere, zapping like lightning over Donghae’s shoulder.

 

 

‘What is going on here, Shim? Why are you meeting with my players without going through me?’

 

 

‘Y-yunho-hyung?’ Donghae bleated.

 

 

He span on the spot to meet the kind eyes of the older man, who smiled warmly.

 

 

‘Hi, Donghae. Hyukjae told me you’d been called in here, and he was wondering why. So am I. Is everything okay, Shim?’

 

 

Donghae was once again aware of an undercurrent, kind of...no, exactly like one of the undercurrents in the interview scenario. Clearly identifiable, now: it was from Yunho, who exuded something that eluded description, but emanated through the room, changing the invisible dynamics of the space.

 

 

‘Captain Jung. Just the man,’ said Changmin, rising to his feet to stare directly back into Yunho’s eyes, and seeming to regain his footing. ‘I have something to discuss with you, in direct relation to this meeting. Which, as I think you could infer, is about the recent article, and the photograph published with it. I believe you are familiar with it.

 

 

‘I am of course unable to accept Donghae-ssi and Ryeowook-ssi’s unhesitating offers to resign. Nothing would look worse in the public eye, whether the allegations are true or not. But we do have to do something, as soon as possible, and I think that task may have to fall to you, perhaps as soon as the end of this week.’

 

 

‘Ryeowook-ssi,’ said Yunho, ‘Go with Donghae-ssi, please. I think Shim and I can discuss this matter alone.’

 

 

His face and voice were both kind, but there was a look in his eye, as he refocused his gaze on Changmin, that brooked no argument: though he moved as though in a daze, Ryeowook managed to obey, and they left without a word.


	50. Islands

As the door to Shim’s office closed behind them, and they left the shadow of the threshold, Ryeowook spoke, his tone subdued.

 

 

‘Donghae…I don’t know if I can do this anymore.’

 

 

The words were not entirely unexpected. They had been foreshadowed; the moment Ryeowook had said the word ‘resign’, and a schism had formed between them.

 

 

Their relationship had been tenuous from the start. It still was. Ryeowook would never tell his parents; he had barely been able to tell his closest friend; he still didn’t even know that Hyukjae knew. And he wasn’t ashamed of them, exactly, but he wasn’t proud, either. He was quiet, and shy, and introverted, and Donghae had known and understood that this was just his personality—it would probably be years before he changed to any great degree.

 

 

Donghae knew all that.

 

 

Only, Donghae had planned to be there for those years, and let time and trust do their inexorable work—and now, because of this…was he going to lose that chance?

 

 

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he could see all too clearly see the fear in Ryeowook’s eyes, and he felt an irrational surge of anger.

 

 

It showed on his face, and he averted his eyes, so that Ryeowook would know it was not directed at him.

 

 

This article had stolen from him. It had stolen from them both. It had brought their carefully cultivated mannerisms of innocuous physical intimacy under the blinding glare of the media microscope. But it had done worse for Ryeowook—it had robbed him of his anonymity.

 

 

He may not be a football player; his name not in public parlance, but it was worse than that—his face, along with the vicious threat of idle speculation. And, precisely because he was not a part of the team, less to protect him.

 

 

Donghae felt his jaw tighten, and stared at the ground, not sure what to say.

 

 

He wanted to protest, desperately. But who was he to press the issue, when the entire situation was his fault, anyway?

 

 

He stared blankly at the transparent glass panes dividing the second-floor balcony from the open space of the ground floor, registering but not quite seeing the occasional person passing below.

 

 

Finally, he looked up again, and sought out Ryeowook’s eyes.

 

 

He couldn’t lie, so there was nothing for it but to tell the truth—tell Ryeowook what he felt.

 

 

He moved towards the younger man, and tried to match his tone in softness; reached for his arms with his hands, but keeping the pressure gentle.

 

 

‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I understand.’

 

 

‘You...do?’

 

 

‘I’m trying to. I don’t feel the same way. But if you could look me in the eye and tell me that you want to end it, then I would understand you. If that was what you wanted.’

 

 

Ryeowook could only look at the ground, and the silence between them felt like two north-ends of magnets being pushed towards each other.

 

 

‘ _Only_ if that was what you wanted.’

 

 

‘Donghae…your _job_ …’

 

 

‘No, Ryeowook, I don’t think you understand…What I _want_ , more than _this_ , is _you_. I’d leave it all today if you asked me to.’

 

 

The breath hissed in between Ryeowook’s teeth sharply, and he pulled back, retreating, pressing himself against the wall.

 

 

‘You’re a fool.’

 

 

Tentative, Donghae followed Ryeowook back those few small steps, instinct telling him not to lose ground—to keep the space between them even.

 

 

‘My mother always said so, yeah. But I’d just as well take over the grocery store. It’s the same to me. Mokpo is just as good as Seoul. Really.’

 

 

‘You’re…’

 

 

Ryeowook fell silent, apparently struggling to put his thoughts into words.

 

 

‘You have too much _potential_ , Donghae,’ he said, eventually. ‘I won’t let you just give this up so easily.’

 

 

‘But Ryeowook, I don’t _care_ about this. I don’t want to give up on _you_ —’

 

 

‘Ssssh—keep your voice down! We _can’t_ , Donghae. How could we, after this? After a photo like that, in the news? What if someone I know sees it? You—’

 

 

‘I’ll try to be less stupid, Ryeowookie. I will. I can be better, for you.’

 

 

They were too close, and it reminded Donghae of the night when they had stood together in front of his apartment building; the first time Ryeowook had dared to touch him in a way that meant something, even though it was just their fingers brushing together. It was the same now: their breath mingling, bodies close to touching; the difference was that Ryeowook did not reach out, and though it was millimetres of space, it felt like metres separating their skin.

 

 

The silence was shattered when Ryeowook’s phone rang—he started, and as he pulled it from his pocket and saw the caller ID, went yet paler.

 

 

‘It’s my mother,’ he said, his voice so low it thrummed through Donghae’s body, all the way down to his feet.

 

 

‘I’ll have to go, and call her back.’

 

 

Pushing past, Ryeowook made his way down the stairs. Donghae, dazed, followed behind, and watched as Ryeowook hurried across the foyer and out the door; he still followed, at a slightly slower pace, before finally slowing to a standstill as the automatic doors parted when Ryeowook got within range of the sensors.

 

 

He vaguely registered the scattered presences of Kibum, and the couple of others in the foyer, but he didn't _really_ notice that they were there until the moment that someone— _Siwon_ , standing closest by the doors—laid eyes on Ryeowook said, quietly but clearly:

 

 

‘Get out, deviant.’

 

 

And although Ryeowook was already gone, the glass sliding closed behind him, something in Donghae snapped at that moment.

 

 

Yet the fist that he extended before a thought had had any chance to crystallise never connected with anything. Instead, he found it pointing skywards as someone— _Hyukjae_ —intervened, flush against him, pushing him aside. He then watched, at very close quarters, as Hyukjae's open hand completed the same trajectory.

 

 

There was a strange sound of his palm and Siwon's jawbone connecting—it seemed to echo, followed by Hyukjae’s voice saying, clear as a bell in the stunned silence: ‘Watch what you say to my cousin.’


	51. Here I Stand

To manage the situation, Changmin planned out a media statement, to be made by Yunho on the Friday of the week following the initial publication of the article.

 

 

In the intervening time, the rumours had not gained any substance. If anything, they had gotten wilder, and more ridiculous. What they had gained was _traction_ : schoolgirls were delirious (with joy, apparently); conservative religious organisations were frothing at the mouth; public figures of all sorts were slipping random comments into public appearances, the majority of them subtle, but scathing towards gossiping, idle speculation, and professional athletes alike.

 

 

By some miracle, though, the article was not specifically discussed. And even if Ryeowook had been recognised, he was never named, to Yunho’s knowledge, for which he was grateful.

 

 

But the other day, Yunho had stepped out of Changmin’s office when he had heard the commotion downstairs. He had found himself watching Ryeowook disappear through the main entrance, and a cluster of conflict between three men at the door. Not unexpectedly, this was Donghae, Siwon…and Hyukjae, standing between them.

 

 

Siwon looked furious, but somehow, even with the height difference, his anger was overshadowed by that radiating in waves off of Hyukjae.

 

 

Seeing the look in Siwon’s eyes, even from his vantage point, Yunho had been obliged to go down and intervene. But no one had been willing to explain the situation—Siwon had simply stalked off, muttering something about heathens.

 

 

Later, Yunho had privately appealed to Kibum, who had only recounted the altercation after forcing Yunho to swear that there would be no repercussions for anyone concerned.

 

 

And ever since, Donghae had become melancholy and subdued, so apparently the silence on Ryeowook’s identity had not been enough to preserve the bond between them, and the knowledge that he had not been able to protect them left a bitter taste in Yunho’s mouth.

 

 

Now, Friday afternoon had come, and Yunho was scheduled to speak.

 

 

The press gallery was packed, standing room only; the mood, one of barely controlled chaos; perverse, suppressed excitement.

 

 

Yunho heard himself being introduced to the amassed reporters, and took to his feet, the speech cards that Changmin had prepared in his hand and a tangle of nerves writhing in his gut.

 

 

Clearing his throat, he clasped the cards between his hands, and looked out across the ocean of expectant faces. They looked back at him, kind of like he was a circus animal—some kind of show pony. They were waiting: waiting for him to give them something for their headlines.

 

 

He was not nervous because of the public speaking. He was a good public speaker.

 

 

He was nervous because he was not sure what he would say, once he began talking.

 

 

He looked down at the cue cards Changmin had prepared, and started to read from the top one.

 

 

‘Thank you, all, for attending today,’ he began, and then faltered.

 

 

He raised his head to survey the waiting faces once more, making eye contact with different individuals in different sections of the sea of reporters, seated and standing alike, and then looked back down to the bland rebuttal that he was supposed to present to the world on the team’s behalf.

 

 

He couldn’t do it, and the moment that he became certain of that, the knot of nerves in his belly untangled, and his mind managed to build order from his thoughts.

 

 

He set the cards down on the podium, and when he opened his mouth again, it was to say, ‘I am retiring from football.’

 

 

Camera flashes, left, right and centre. Shouted questions, blending together to create a wave of meaningless sound, rushing towards him: ‘What drove you to make this decision?’ ‘But you’re still an ascending sportsman!’ ‘You’re at the beginning of your career!’ ‘Did something happen?’

 

 

Yunho held up his hand and waited for silence.

 

 

‘Please, give me a moment, and I will explain.

 

 

‘You may recall that, in recent times, certain derogatory and speculative comments have been made in the public sphere about the sexual preferences of some athletes.

 

 

‘These allegations have raised some serious concerns for me about how unwelcome diversity seems to be in this so-called “team sport”.

 

 

‘I have made no secret of the fact that inequality in professional sports, limited opportunities, and the unfair treatment of the disadvantaged is a serious matter, and one of great personal concern for me. I am from a working class family, in Gwangju. We never had a lot of money, and I never achieved well in my studies. it was pure good fortune that I have been able to reach this position.

 

 

‘There are plenty of sportsmen of equal talent who have gone unnoticed. There are plenty of up-and-coming sportsmen who face the threat of going unnoticed. And from recent events it has become clear to me that there are yet other ways in which discrimination threatens members of the sporting community.

 

 

‘That is why I am choosing to retire.

 

 

‘I would like to take this opportunity to publically express my gratitude to those who have given me so many amazing opportunities, and made it possible for me to rise to this position of great responsibility. However, I have now reached a point where my personal beliefs seem to be at odds with the codes of my colleagues.

 

 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please do not omit this from your media releases: I, Jung Yunho, would like to make a public admission of my sexuality.

 

 

‘I will not marry a woman.

 

 

‘I am attracted, romantically and physically, to men.

 

 

‘I am gay.

 

 

‘I realise that for many this is simply a case of me making something that “should be private” a public matter. For those whose sensibilities I will offend for bringing my personal life into the public sphere, I apologise. But I will not apologise for the announcement itself. Ignorance is a choice. Sexuality is not.

 

 

‘I know that this issue is a contentious one in Korea. However, it is also a matter of basic human rights. My sexuality was not something I chose. It is a part of who I am. I have concealed it in the past, but I am not willing to continue to do so: especially not when my colleagues air the types of views that have so recently been allowed in the news. As a result, I feel I have no choice but to stand down from my role as captain.

 

 

‘Thank you for coming. That is all I have to say.’

 

 

He left the room to the resonant sound of dumb silence.


	52. Darkness Eyes

‘Do you know what you’ve done, Jung Yunho?’

 

 

Changmin stood in Yunho’s doorway, his arms crossed over his chest; his face pale and hard. There was a tic working in his jaw.

 

 

Yunho was not going to back down. He held Changmin’s accusatory gaze, unflinching.

 

 

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s called coming out. It’s acceptable in many cultures.’

 

 

‘Not here,’ Changmin snarled. ‘Not now. Not like that.’

 

 

They stared at each other for a while, unmoving.

 

 

Then, Changmin stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

 

 

When he spoke again, his voice was soft and poisonous.

 

 

He was not just angry. He was livid.

 

 

‘Did you do it for _him_?’ he hissed, tone scalding, ‘For _them_? To protect your precious country bumpkin and his…his _indiscretion_?’

 

 

Yunho stiffened, hurt and annoyed by Changmin’s derisive tone, but he made himself wait before responding. He was not going to be baited, or say anything he didn’t mean.

 

 

‘No, Changmin,’ he replied, evenly. ‘I did it for me. I got tired of lying by omission. I’m tired of feeling like I should be ashamed of who I am, and I’m tired of being seen as someone that I’m not.’

 

 

‘You’ve ended your _career_ over it, you idiot.’

 

 

Yunho shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I can live with that.’

 

 

‘What about the _club_ , Yunho? What about _me_? I have to deal with the consequences of this.’

 

 

‘And I’m sure you will manage it with incredible skill and tact,’ Yunho retorted, dryly. ‘After all, I’m now retired.’

 

 

His heart felt strangely empty, right now, staring into Changmin’s furious, tormented gaze. _What about_ you, _though, Changmin? Not professional you. What about_ you? _What about_ us?

 

 

‘Are you even a _little_ bit sorry?’ Changmin pressed, his tone still full of barely suppressed anger.

 

 

‘What do you want me to say, Changmin? I won’t apologise for telling the truth. The reputation of the club does not depend on me. And who knows? Maybe one day, my actions will mean that the love between two people—two _men_ —can be called what it is. Not an “indiscretion”.’

 

 

Changmin’s mouth curled, and he looked as though he was going to interrupt, so Yunho plunged ahead, speaking softly but firmly.

 

 

‘They’re in _love_ , Changmin. They deserve to have that. I will not stand by and watch them be torn apart by the ignorance of others. But I didn’t do it _for them_. I did it so I can live with _myself._ ’

 

 

Changmin stared at the floor.

 

 

Yunho waited, but the words that he was hoping for never came. Now, as had often been the case, it was like he and Changmin could not quite synchronise: they were always slightly out of time; looking at the same thing, but seeing different worlds.

 

 

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about us?’ he prompted, gently.

 

 

Changmin’s mouth twisted bitterly.

 

 

‘My father…My father said he was surprised to hear that you’re…like that.’

 

 

‘I’m sure he was.’

 

 

The silence was long and loaded. Changmin’s eyes, as ever, told Yunho that he was flooded with thoughts, the emotions whirling round a mile a minute, but the emotions themselves were impossible to identify, much less comprehend.

 

 

‘I can’t tell him about _me_ , Yunho,’ Changmin said, suddenly, and Yunho was slightly surprised. It was still sharp—there was a thick layer of resentment in Changmin’s tone—but it was…embarrassed, too. Maybe it was almost an apology. ‘You don’t know what they’re really like—I can’t…’

 

 

The complex emotions began to brim over, and he trailed off, closing his eyes to hold the intensity in.

 

 

Yunho nodded. ‘I know. And…it’s your choice. And I respect it. And if you’re worried I’m going to out you—’

 

 

The reaction was immediate: the same strange blend of rage and embarrassment, or whatever it was. ‘Jesus, Yunho. I know you better than that. I trusted you. I _still_ fucking trust you, even though you pulled a stunt like this.’

 

 

But Changmin came no closer, physically, and _felt_ no closer, energetically, and Yunho knew that something big, something important, had changed between them.

 

 

‘It’s…it’s over, then, I suppose,’ he said, at last. ‘Us.’

 

 

‘Well, _shit_ , Yunho,’ said Changmin, bitterly, ‘I guess it is. You big fucking moron. You haven’t even _started_ thinking this through yet, have you—the big picture.’

 

 

Yunho reached for the glass of wine he had out on the coffee table and sat back, trying to absorb this information.

 

 

It was too surreal. Everything was surreal. Changmin was two hundred per cent correct: he had not even begun to think it through. Hell, he still wasn’t even quite sure that it had really happened.

 

 

When his eyes flicked back to Changmin’s, the younger man’s face had softened, his anger ebbing away like the retreating tide, replaced with something that was his signature calculated blandness: the blandness that blanketed the internal tornado. A storm in a lidded jar.

 

 

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back to take a seat at Yunho’s side, setting down his own glass and filling it with wine.

 

 

For a good ten minutes, they drank, side by side. Awkwardly, for once, they were moving in time.

 

 

‘It was actually a very good speech,’ said Changmin. ‘I just wish you’d given the one I wrote, instead.’

 

 

‘I know you’re angry with me.’

 

 

‘I know you’re not sorry.’

 

 

It was an uneasy truce. The Thing was still there—the Difference. It was not in his voice or his body language; it was something completely intangible; something in the way that their energy moved between them. For a long time now, there were things between them that had always been entangled, and now, Changmin was disconnected. Yunho could feel it: the chapter between them had ended.

 

 

The realisation hurt, hurt deeply, but even something about the hurt felt more…authentic. Like the difference between seeing a landscape painting, and actually _being_ in the landscape. Like he could now move beyond the compartments of thinking and feeling and maybe actually start to _live_.

 

 

The sense of loss was compensated by the sense of fullness, and although Yunho was disappointed, he somehow knew that he would be okay. But he was not so sure about Changmin and his secrets.

 

 

‘Will you be alright, Changmin?’

 

 

‘Funny. I was just thinking the same about you. I’m worried for you—what you might be bringing on yourself.’

 

 

‘You would have stopped me if you'd known, wouldn’t you.’

 

 

‘Yes. I would have tried. But...you...you did well, Yunho. You spoke well. You were honest. I think you're a fucking idiot to put yourself in the firing line like that. But I hope I'm wrong. I hope your...your crazy dream can come true. I wish you all the happiness in the world. But this path you're choosing...I can't go with you.’

 

 

‘You won’t…’ Yunho took a breath, steadied himself, put down the glass. ‘You won’t be coming back here like you did before, will you.’

 

 

‘I'm sorry, Yunho. I don't think I can. I will do everything in my power to help and support you. But I think it would be best if we stop this.’

 

 

Yunho nodded, accepting. There was any number of worse possible outcomes. If he could keep Changmin’s friendship, then…that would have to do.

 

 

Changmin did not stay much longer. They finished the bottle, and then Yunho followed him as he made his way to the door.

 

 

Changmin hesitated on the threshold, and turned back to look at Yunho fully one last time.

 

 

The younger man's emotions would remain a mystery, but he leaned in, and they kissed.

 

 

It was gentle, and tasted of finality.

 

 

To Changmin’s retreating back, Yunho said: ‘I won’t change the passcode.’ _You can always come here._

 

 

Changmin quickened his pace, and disappeared down the corridor.


	53. Smoky Heart

It was not until the following afternoon that anyone else came to Yunho’s door. He did receive a number of phone calls, but most were from numbers he did not know—not that he answered any of the numbers he recognised, either.

 

 

As the day wore on, though, he did get hungry. For a time, he deliberated going outside, but eventually, after peering out to see a dark and gloomy day, decided against it, and called for a take-out delivery. Three large portions, so he could keep some in the fridge for later.

 

 

About five minutes passed after he hung up the call, and there came a knock at the door.

 

 

If he hadn’t been expecting the delivery guy, he probably wouldn’t have answered, but he was, so he did, and found himself looking at someone entirely unexpected.

 

 

He was looking at the delicate features of Kim Ryeowook.

 

 

‘You?’ he said: a genuine question.

 

 

‘I’m sorry, I know you don’t know me, and coming here, to your home, uninvited…I tried to call, but there was no answer, and I…I got your address from Executive Shim, and I just…was hoping…maybe you could help me, Captain Jung-nim…’

 

 

‘I'm not captain anything anymore,’ said Yunho, and Ryeowook immediately flushed crimson with embarrassment.

 

 

He looked like he might run away, or maybe start to cry, so Yunho, to demonstrate that there was no malice in the correction, opened the door a little wider and stood aside.‘Come in, Kim Ryeowook-ssi. Sit down. Have you eaten?’

 

 

‘N-no, but—’

 

 

‘Stay for lunch? I ordered too much, and I could use the company.’

 

 

It was impulsive, but it felt right.

 

 

Following Yunho’s indication, Ryeowook entered nervously, taking of his shoes and placing them neatly at the door before taking a seat on the couch, as directed. He was cute—smoothing his clothes, and glancing around; curious, but trying not to be. Yunho suppressed a smile.

 

 

He took a seat across from Ryeowook, and waited patiently for the younger man to speak.

 

 

‘Jung-nim...’

 

 

‘Please, Ryeowook-ssi. Just hyung will do.’

 

 

Ryeowook’s eyes darted to and away from Yunho again, and he seemed to take a moment to steel his nerves before speaking.

 

 

When he did, it was to ask: ‘Did you know…Did you know about Donghae?’

 

 

Yunho nodded. ‘Yeah, I knew.’

 

 

‘Oh. Can…can I ask…How…?’

 

 

‘If I’m honest, Ryeowook-ssi, it was the way he looked at you.’

 

 

‘Oh.’ Ryeowook began to stare at his socks so intently that he looked like he must have been counting the threads.

 

 

‘Tea? Soju?’ Yunho offered, forced to suppress a grin once more at the way Ryeowook’s eyes lit up at the latter.

 

 

‘C-can I?’

 

 

‘Soju then.’

 

 

‘Please.’

 

 

Yunho took himself off to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle and some glasses, one of which he passed to Ryeowook, who accepted deferentially.

 

 

The delivery also arrived, and so they passed a little more time in silence while Ryeowook helped Yunho lay out the lunch.

 

 

They also ate in silence, and had nearly finished the bottle of soju before Ryeowook suddenly seemed to gather together his courage.

 

 

‘I wanted...to thank you. For what you did, yesterday,’ he said, and Yunho glanced up at him, startled by the fact that the gentle young man had spoken at all, and then even more by what he said.

 

 

‘Why on earth would you thank me for that? I only told the truth.’

 

 

‘It was more than I could do,’ said Ryeowook, dully, and Yunho felt a pang of sympathy.

 

 

‘Ryeowook-ssi, Donghae is a good man. Do you love him?’

 

 

‘...I do.’

 

 

‘Then all I can tell you is to cling to it. Cherish it.’

 

 

The self-doubt was so strong that it was palpable. Yunho could almost _taste_ it. ‘I'm afraid. I'm afraid I won't be enough for him, hyungnim.’

 

 

Sitting back to fix a serious gaze on the younger man, Yunho said,‘Ryeowook. I don't know you well. I don't know your story, and I don’t know what you've been through. But it's clear to me that Donghae loves you. So whatever it is, just tell him the truth. Tell him what you're afraid of. Take care of each other.’

 

 

Maybe it was just the lighting, but Ryeowook’s eyes were very bright.‘I...I never...Donghae is the first. The first man I fell in love with. I don't know what to do with that feeling. But someone like you...giving up so much...I think you've taught me what life should be.’

 

 

A shadow passed over his expression. ‘Actually, what I came to say today was...I'm sorry. If it hadn't been for me...’

 

 

There it was again. Like Changmin, Ryeowook thought that this was something that required attributing fault. Only he was blaming  _himself._ ‘Ryeowook-ssi, listen very carefully to me: I did this for myself. And I may have to give up a few things as a consequence, but if it has in any way helped you too—’

 

 

‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘yes. You made me want to be brave, like you.’

 

 

‘...then the benefits already far outweigh the costs. Just promise me you'll look after him, or he'll end up on a stretcher. He still doesn't seem to understand legs don't work that way.’

 

 

Before he left, Ryeowook hugged Yunho.

 

 

He was considerably shorter, so his face ended up buried against Yunho's chest, and Yunho felt a little bit like he was holding a frightened child.

 

 

He was genuinely moved by the fact that Ryeowook had come and confided in him—touched by his courage, and his trust.

 

 

Ryeowook’s hands were pressing lightly, shyly against the small of his back; it was a tender and heartfelt embrace, and the innocence of it, the pure sincerity, was balm to the loss and the self-doubt that had coursed through Yunho's psyche in the past twenty four hours.

 

 

By ‘intruding’, Ryeowook had actually given him the most precious thing possible: confirmation that he had made the right choice.

 

 

He put out an arm to return the embrace, his other palm on the back of Ryeowook's head, resting in the soft dark hair.

 

 

This.

 

 

This was what it felt like to make a difference.


	54. A Man in Love

After the day of the meeting with Executive Shim, from the moment he had felt a fissure forming between them, from the second Ryeowook had left the football club, Donghae had not been able to reach him.

 

 

He tried to call him, and left short messages when his calls rang out, but Ryeowook never answered.

 

 

A painful fog of melancholy settled deep in Donghae’s chest, accompanied by the additional torment of uncertainty. What did this silence mean? When Ryeowook had left the way he did, was it…did it mean that it was over? But worst of all was the fact that in spite of the likely probability that this was the case, Donghae could not believe that Ryeowook would be so brutal as to cut off all contact forever, in an instant, like that. So despite the constant beeping into the message bank, still he held out the thinnest sliver of hope that Ryeowook’s silence meant what it had once meant before—that Ryeowook just needed time. _Please, let it just be that he needs time._ There was still too much he had never had the chance to tell him.

 

 

After the sixth or seventh day of failed attempts, Donghae finally obeyed Hyukjae’s instructions to ‘Just wait.’

 

 

And the first day he did not try to contact Ryeowook had been the day of Jung Yunho’s unprecedented public declaration.

 

 

He’d been at the gym with Hyukjae, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Ryeowook by throwing himself into an intense cardio session on the stationary cycles. There were a couple of other people around, including Siwon, on the treadmill, but he seemed to deliberately ignore them—they had not spoken since the day of the meeting, either.

 

 

By chance, the gym screens had been set to the news channel that ran Yunho’s live broadcast—the volume was up, and images of their captain’s face on every wall, as his media statement took an entirely unexpected and horribly final turn.

 

 

As the phrase ‘I’m gay’ rang out, there was a thud from across the room—Siwon, losing his footing, and coming off the back of the treadmill.

 

 

Donghae glanced over to see that nothing seemed to be damaged but the other athlete’s dignity, and maybe his sense of reality—he was staring blankly at the screen, his jaw slightly unhinged as he clung to the arms of the exercise equipment.

 

 

To be fair, Donghae and Hyukjae had also frozen in place, their feet still and the bike wheels spinning pointlessly beneath them as their captain retired without warning.

 

 

Donghae, at least, was not surprised by the content of this speech regarding Yunho’s sexuality—he had thought that it was probably the case. But he was sure as hell shell-shocked by the publicity of the declaration, and the decision that it was leading Yunho to make.

 

 

‘Wow,’ said Hyukjae, from beside him, ‘That was…unexpected.’

 

 

Watching the chaos unfold in the club in the aftermath certainly kept Donghae distracted from the fact that he did not hear from Ryeowook that day, either.

 

 

 

 

 

But the following afternoon, he opened the door to find the younger man, panting, on their doorstep.

 

 

Ryeowook’s narrow face was covered in a light sheen of sweat; eyes shining; lips parted as though trying to catch his breath. He’d been...running?...and was accompanied by the faintest, delicious scent of...fried chicken?...and soju.

 

 

Donghae just stood there, dumbfounded.

 

 

Ryeowook heaved in a breath, and began to talk: the words spilling from him and washing over Donghae in a torrential outpour.

 

 

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘Donghae, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t take your calls. I’ve been a fool. I was afraid. There’s something I have to tell you. I know I must have hurt you by walking away, the other day, but the thing is, even after you told me you’d be better, the fact of the matter is it’s me. It’s me who’s not good enough for you. You deserve so much. You deserve everything. You deserve someone who can give you the world, and I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough. I…For all these months, I kept wondering why you did it—why you chose _me_ ; how you could stand to be so patient, how you could just keep on _giving_ , when I couldn’t even…I can barely even say it now, but I have to. I don’t want to lose you, Lee Donghae. I…I love you. And it’s me who has to try to be better, for you.’

 

 

He lapsed into silence, then: chest rising and falling rapidly and hands shaking as he stared at Donghae’s knees—or maybe the ground. Either way, it meant that thankfully he did not see the moisture that began to well at the corners of Donghae’s eyes.

 

 

‘That…that’s all,’ said Ryeowook. ‘I’ll go now.’

 

 

As though Donghae would let him go that easily.

 

 

He reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back roughly against his body and holding him there.

 

 

‘Ryeowook-ah…I love you too. You’re everything I want in the world. Don’t you dare take the one thing that I want away from me.’

 

 

One of the tears got away, slipping from Donghae’s eyelashes to wet Ryeowook’s cheek, pressed flush against his.

 

 

After a moment, the younger man seemed to realise what, exactly, was dampening his skin, and he made a very small, strangled, and uninterpretable but deeply meaningful noise (recognition, compassion, empathy) before exhaling heavily. He seemed, somehow, to expel all his restraint with that breath, too: surrendering to Donghae’s embrace, his hands found purchase on his back, fingers digging into the muscles between his shoulder blades; clinging to him with all his might.

 

 

Feeling as though his heart might crack and explode for all the emotions crammed inside it, Donghae whispered, ‘Come inside.’

 

 

‘Hyukjae—’

 

 

‘Is out. Come inside.’


	55. A Man in Love (II)

Donghae' s room was not exactly tidy, but it didn't matter.

 

 

Ryeowook pushed Donghae straight down onto the bed and clambered on over him, his desire apparently trumping his usual keen self-consciousness.

 

 

He pressed himself over and against him, stealing every breath that passed his lips and turning each into a kiss. These were of varying depth, but unified by the faint taste of alcohol and a deep, rich thirst.

 

 

There was a hum of electricity between them: soft, like the cotton that separated them, but generated friction against Donghae’s skin as Ryeowook moved against him.

 

 

Ryeowook wrapped the fingers of one hand in his hair and began to drag longer, slower kisses from his lips—still soft, but also hungry—which slowly began to deepen and intensify.

 

 

Donghae would do anything for Ryeowook’s mouth, he thought, as he felt those warm lips melding against his own.

 

 

One of them began to whimper and moan, and it soon became both, their voices intermingling in a natural harmony until Ryeowook pulled away, and the sound was only Donghae’s disappointed whine.

 

 

‘Donghae,’ said Ryeowook, a new gravity in his voice, ‘Today…I want you.’

 

 

‘You already have me,’ Donghae choked out, because he was running a little low in the words department, but Ryeowook shook his head.

 

 

‘No, Donghae. I mean, I _want_ you.’

 

 

He was already blushing before the words had fully manifested, and afterwards, he bit his lower lip.

 

 

‘Ohhhh,’ Donghae said, catching on. He studied Ryeowook’s expression carefully.

 

 

‘You don't have to.’

 

 

‘But I want to.’ Ryeowook flushed darker and sat back a little; the heel of his hand at Donghae's crotch. ‘I want you.’

 

 

As arousal began to flood through him in an ever more visceral and decisive way, Donghae felt as though he was swimming through treacle. Everything was becoming slower and sweeter. The sweetness was not least of all the gesture itself—he knew what this was.

 

 

This was Ryeowook letting down the last barricade.

 

 

This was Ryeowook handing him the key to the locked box, and saying ‘open me’.

 

 

Despite its carnal form, this was, in fact, the gift of trust.

 

 

But too much tension lingered still in the squaring of his shoulders, and Donghae was in no rush.

 

 

Ryeowook still rubbed him gently through his pants, but he caught the younger man gently by the wrist, and pulled his hand away, taking care to hold his gaze with a gentle smile so he would know that it was not a rejection.

 

 

‘Ryeowook-ah—Ryeowook-ah, Ryeowook ah, wait—Wait. You're still too wound up. Wait. Let me...let me help you relax.’

 

 

Ryeowook’s eyebrows ascended his forehead and hid behind his fringe. He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Really?’

 

 

‘Yes really. Take off your clothes and lie down,’ said Donghae, trying to sound commanding. (He was not very good at it.)

 

 

Ryeowook looked mildly amused, but stood up to do as he was told, and while he was off the bed, Donghae pulled off the duvet to leave nothing but the bottom bedsheet, and two pillows, which he arranged neatly.

 

 

‘Put your face between those,’ he instructed, still trying unsuccessfully to imitate Ryeowook’s directive bedside manner.

 

 

‘Okay. Do you have any massage oil…? Moisturiser or something would do fine, but—’

 

 

‘Sssh!’ Donghae hissed, doing his best to scowl, although it was probably more of a pout: ‘Just get on the bed.’

 

 

As a matter of fact, he had probably swiped this particular…goop…from Ryeowook’s house at some point or another, but that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that it was appropriate for the situation.

 

 

Ryeowook was lying on his stomach, looking up at him, now dressed down to his underwear, and Donghae waved an impatient hand to indicate that the younger man should put his face down.

 

 

Still looking faintly bemused, Ryeowook did, and Donghae climbed over to straddle his ass and stare wonderingly at the creamy expanse of his back—so pale, and smooth, and all his to touch now.

 

 

Feeling smug, he settled in over Ryeowook's backside. The bulge in the front of his pants made his thoughts about the arrangement painfully apparent, but if Ryeowook felt it brush against him, he said nothing—just moaned when Donghae unleashed a liberal squirt of cool ointment, followed by another, in parallel lines either side of his spine.

 

 

‘It’s cold.’

 

 

Donghae moved his hands in long strokes down either side of Ryeowook's back, eliciting another, deeper, thicker moan.

 

 

‘Oh, god. That feels amazing,’ he said, muffled by the pillows.

 

 

Donghae smirked. ‘Of course it does. Just you wait. I've learned a thing or two.’

 

 

‘And there I was thinking you fell asleep most times.’

 

 

Donghae continued with long light strokes along the snowy expanse of Ryeowook’s sides. He could feel Ryeowook pushing back against his hands, seeking more consistency in the pressure, but he didn’t give it to him. What he had learned, he had learned well, and he knew that the first step in the art form of massage was to lull the victim into a false sense of security before getting into the serious side of things.

 

 

Granted, today’s ‘serious side’ was not of the usual variety, but it seemed logical that the same principles should apply.

 

 

He lavished variations of force on Ryeowook's skin. Now hard, now soft; now palms, now fingertips; Ryeowook rewarded him with a soft soundtrack of sighs and groans, his voice so rich and melodious and evocative that it gave Donghae gooseflesh.

 

 

Sliding his fingertips over Ryeowook’s slick skin, he came to a pause over the younger man’s lower back, sinking his thumbs slowly and steadily into the knots of muscle tangled there, and the moan that _this_ provoked was almost more than he could bear.


	56. A Man in Love (III)

Donghae asked Ryeowook to roll onto his back, and the younger man conceded.

 

 

He lay there, his colour high and his eyes faintly defiant still, as though daring Donghae to massage away the last vestiges of reluctance.

 

 

Donghae squirted a liberal amount of multipurpose massage goop over Ryeowook's chest, and took the challenge, sliding his fingers through the slick mess to trace the striations of muscle under the younger man's skin.

 

 

Ryeowook tried to fight it, but not for long; after Donghae began to knead gently at the muscles strung along each of his ribs, he seemed to give in. His eyelids fluttered closed, his lips parting with an unvoiced sound; under the press of Donghae's fingers, his nipples hardened.

 

 

Donghae painted the clearish liquid over his creamy skin, admiring the ways it caught the light. It took some effort not to let Ryeowook's cock distract him, pushing against the front of his shorts like that—Ryeowook himself,it turned out, was unable to ignore it for long, his elegant fingers slipping under his own waistband.

 

 

Donghae tried not to see, but try as he might not to notice the furtive movement in his peripheral vision, he did.

 

 

'Just take them off,' he murmured, when the distraction became too great.

 

 

Ryeowook obliged.

 

 

Then, deliberately, he handed Donghae the massage stuff, and lay back with bent knees, his eyes closed and his fingers returning to his stiffening dick. The light still glistened in the thin layer of liquid over his torso—to Donghae, he seemed to glow, like some kind of supernatural being, heretofore beyond his mortal knowledge.

 

 

'Hyung,' Ryeowook prompted, quietly, his eyes still shut.

 

 

Donghae slicked the fingers of his right hand. The lube was cool and slightly sweet-smelling; it contrasted sharply with the warmth of Ryeowook's skin as he slid one cautious fingertip between his buttocks. He saw Ryeowook tense a little; the fingers of his left hand flexing where they curled around his cock, and it was instinct that made Donghae reach out with his own left hand to take Ryeowook's right, twining their fingers together and pressing it back against the mattress.

 

 

It worked, though: Ryeowook breathed out, the ghost of an embarrassed smile flitting over his lips.

 

 

Part of Donghae wanted to lean down and kiss him, but the rest of him was concentrating on stroking and teasing Ryeowook's tight, hot asshole, and kisses would have to wait.

 

 

'You're warm,' he said, squeezing Ryeowook's fingers.

 

 

This made Ryeowook flush with proper embarrassment. He opened his eyes, and Donghae gave him all the tenderness he could in his smile.

 

 

'Does it hurt?'

 

 

'No,' said Ryeowook, shaking his head, but clinging to Donghae's eyes, 'No, it doesn't hurt. You can...push a little.'

 

 

Donghae did, and the warm smooth muscle of Ryeowook's insides closed over his finger, drawing him in past the first knuckle.

 

 

The same movement pushed a surprised but not displeased gasp from Ryeowook's lips.

 

 

'Oh-'

 

 

'Oh,' Donghae agreed, holding Ryeowook's shy eyes and refusing to break their eye contact, 'wow.'

 

 

He waited for Ryeowook to relax around him before moving again, and even then it was just the slightest undulation; just a little, just enough to see the younger man's pupils dilate with a flutter of arousal.

 

 

Ryeowook began to stroke himself, his cock still stirring slowly, and Donghae pushed a little deeper.

 

 

He was pleased to see Ryeowook's eyes widen again, his lips part with pleasure. He took his time, and it was a thousand times worth the effort for the slow changes it wrought in Ryeowook's body.

 

 

Eventually, he was loose enough for a second finger, and, though unwilling to speak, he lifted his feet in wordless invitation.

 

 

Donghae accepted, relinquishing his hand and shuffling awkwardly about to kneel beneath him. He took the weight of his calves onto his shoulders, fumbling to get free of his pants, and lubricate his painfully erect dick.

 

 

Ultimately succeeding, he adjusted their positions just so that he could rest the tip against Ryeowook's asshole. Then, he took Ryeowook's thighs in his hands and waited; gyrating just a little; grinding against the sensitive skin until he felt the muscles ease around him, giving in in a moment of beautiful confusion.

 

 

He sank in a little way, and the sensation seemed to flood his senses. He was no longer sure he could touch or taste or see or hear anything but Ryeowook: Ryeowook, who was so tight and yet so pliant; Ryeowook, who had made the most exquisite noise of animal satisfaction; Ryeowook, who was pulling slowly at his cock and tightening, tightening...

 

 

'Are you okay?'

 

 

He was surprised he even managed to churn the words out.

 

 

Ryeowook didn't even reply properly: just nodded, and said 'Go.'

 

 

Donghae once again did as he was told. He went, moving his hips, and letting the tight clasp of Ryeowook's body shape his pleasure for him, which it did with extraordinary efficiency.

 

 

He set a slow rhythm, to begin with, but of course the pace changed as Ryeowook relaxed and took him in, and as he changed angle at the other man’s behest he felt the pressure of his prostate against his dick.

 

 

That was when Ryeowook began to unravel, to truly let go. His voice took on a timbre that Donghae had never known before. It had a depth and richness that was to Donghae almost spiritual: wrapped deep inside of him, it made him so desperate to have Ryeowook's pleasure match his own, though as he sped up the pace of his hips he could not hear himself make any sound but panting, so determined was he to see Ryeowook come—

 

 

And come he did, the white jet spilling through his fingers, stark contrast to the jet black of both of their pubic hair; a mess, oozing down to where the shaft of Donghae's cock disappeared into Ryeowook's tight hot asshole.

 

 

Donghae coasted through an orgasm that he felt must have defined that word enlightenment.

 

 

As he, too, came, with some force, deep inside of Ryeowook, the younger man's eyes widened with amazement, his pupils still blown from his own orgasm.

 

 

When he had stopped seeing stars, Donghae felt his mouth open, and say the darnedest thing.

 

 

‘I love you, Kim Ryeowook.’

 

 

After a moment of stunned hesitation, Ryeowook laughed breathlessly, and smiled at him.

 

 

‘I love you too, Donghae.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there are mistakes and stuff. Written at like 1am because I suck at sleeping even when I'm tired. Hope it was worth the wait ;)


	57. Time Works Wonders

After he retired, Yunho went back to Gwangju.

 

He could have left Korea and been done with the lot of it. Started anew somewhere that would be more accepting. He knew it, and so did the rest of Korea, but he didn't, because he wasn't running away, and there were even a couple of liberal but reputable media outlets that were willing to broadcast that fact if he would agree to be interviewed.

 

So, without consulting Changmin, because he was in charge of his own PR now, he accepted the interviews, and publicised his choice, not only to stay, but to go home.

 

Overall, his actions were well-received. Especially by the people in Gwangju. Many continued to be mystified by the whole "coming out" thing, but many more than he'd expected, on his return, genuinely wanted to learn.

 

So it was in Gwangju, of all places, that he began to carve out what finally felt like a truly meaningful career.

 

Slowly, things had come together. Now, two years down the track, he was coaching a university football team, and involved in three different types of advocacy. Although it was not easy, it was getting easier. And literally only one person had been actively hostile towards him the whole time he had been home.

 

In fact, Gwangju on the whole seemed defiantly supportive of Yunho. People who might have been deliberately ignorant othwerwise had chosen regional pride over homophobia, ( because when it came down to it, it turned out Gwangju people would take the side of an upstanding, honest, gay Gwangju man over smug privileged city pretensions.

 

He knew, because a middle aged man had told him so in the street.

 

Yunho was both bemused and heartened by the positive outcome, and above all grateful for the love and support of his family and the people of his home town.

 

Gwangju was truly not like Seoul.

 

There had been a few months of notoriety immediately after his return, but people here had other things to be doing. Food to grow. Families to raise. Once they understood what was happening, they made up their minds on how they felt about it, and moved on.

 

The quiet dignity of life in a place like this was soothing, and before he had even moved out of his parents' home into a small flat of his own, one of the major universities in the city had reached out to him to see if he'd be interested in coaching.

 

He was.

 

He liked it.

 

He'd cut his hair and cut back and gone back to the simple things. Those were the things that truly mattered.

 

Though his friends still mattered, too, he was not brave enough to reach out to them again.

 

He watched from a distance, with pride, as Kim Kibum, whom he'd hoped for, took over the captaincy.

 

Periodically, he would watch the Seoul teams matches on tv: with Kibum at the helm, they played well.

 

And in every match Donghae played, he would always look out for Kim Ryeowook at the sidelines, and hope that he was happy.

 

 

It was Ryeowook who called him out of the blue one day, to tell him that Changmin had left the country.

 

The call was technically from Donghae's phone, and Yunho could hear the rough Mokpo accent in the background, complaining dolefully (to Yunho) about having his phone taken off of him.

 

The conversation was fairly brief, but long enough for him to remember that he loved both of them like children he would never have, and they began to visit each other periodically thereafter.

 

Another year came and went, and, as far as Yunho could tell, things continued to get better.

 

It was a warm day in spring, and he was feeling seasonably optimistic, and happy with his life. It had not gone the way that he and the people he loved might have imagined, but no less fulfilling, for all that.  And Donghae and Ryeowook had floated that they might come down today, so, while he shouted instructions at his university team players, he was also thinking about dinner.

 

It was funny, though, how even three years later he still caught glimpses of people and mistook them for Changmin.

 

Like today, now that they were finishing up practice, and some tall guy sitting in the bleachers by the exit caught his eye.

 

He dismissed the resemblance as a figment of his imagination, as was his habit, his gaze already passing beyond the hallucination.

 

He wasn't wearing his contacts, and his glasses were in his bag, and he always mistook tall figures more often when he couldn't see properly.

 

Yet...he could feel the distant figure looking at him, a little...hard...and his eyes travelled back again, ignoring his brain, which said sternly, This is ridiculous.

 

He blinked, and squinted.

 

A second glance did nothing to alleviate his shortsightedness.

 

The figure rose, and stood there, and there was something expectant and demanding in his stance that made Yunho start towards him.

 

They must have business with him, whoever they were. Or maybe...maybe it was Ryeowook? The hairstyle was almost right...

 

As he drew closer, though, the man was too tall; his mouth too big; his face larger and softer.

 

Unless he'd finally cracked and started full-blown hallucinations, it was Changmin.

It was actually him. 

 

Impulsively, he broke into a run, spurred by a flood of emotions--but they became too much, and he stalled like a flooded engine, juddering to a standstill, looking up into Changmin's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why the flying fruitcake is ao3 so mobile unfriendly? I will be coming back to edit this one =_=;;


	58. Time Works Wonders (II)

'Shim Changmin,' he said.

 

 

'Jung Yunho,' Changmin replied, stepping down as far as the wall.

 

 

'W...'

 

 

He was going to ask 'What are you doing here', but he choked--the words wouldn't come out.

 

 

'You look...you look good,' he almost-whispered, after a moment.

 

 

'So do you,' said Changmin, a little too warmly.

 

 

'I thought you were in America.'

 

 

'I came back,'

 

 

Yunho just stared.

 

 

Changmin began to look uncomfortable

 

 

'I was in the area, and I...'

 

 

'You were...in the area...in Gwangju...?'

 

 

'Well, no, I...I mean, I wanted to see you.'

 

 

'How did you find me?'

 

 

'I...heard you were working here now, so I just thought...'

 

 

Changmin did something unfamiliar.

 

 

He began to bluster.

 

 

'Look, it's been a long time. I just...'

 

 

He floundered. It looked strange on him.

 

 

'Ryeowook, okay? I asked Ryeowook. He still had the same number.'

 

 

Yunho huffed a laugh. Who else would have the cunning to orchestrate this but Ryeowook? No wonder he'd been so insistent that Yunho not make plans this weekend. _Donghae and I might visit my arse_.

 

 

'I, uh, yeah. Sorry. I know I'm coming unannounced, but I just got in and...you still have the same car. I saw it when I was driving past. I was going to go find a hotel, and--'

 

 

'No, no--you don't have to stay in a hotel,' Yunho blurted indignantly, feeling the words erupt from his face, bypassing his brain. 'My flat has two bedrooms. I thought...I thought Ryeowook would be visiting, but I think that was a ruse.'

 

 

He smiled ruefully.

 

 

'Kid has me on a string.'

 

 

Changmin was looking at him shyly, a frown marring his brow.

 

 

'If it's any trouble, though, Yunho--'

 

 

'No. You can stay at mine. Doesn't make sense to pay for a room when I've got one sitting there ready.'

 

 

They stood quietly for a moment before changmin stepped down out of the bleachers.

 

 

He was taller--Yunho had forgotten that--and as he came closer, Yunho saw that he looked tired.

 

 

'You said you drove?' he asked gently.

 

 

'Yeah.'

 

 

'You must be tired, then. Follow me.'

 

 

 

 

Back at the flat, Yunho sat dumbly on the couch.

 

 

Changmin had driven down that morning, and said he felt gross from travel, and could he shower, so he was in there now, singing something softly, tunefully, no louder than the hiss of running water.

 

 

Yunho had gone and changed into clean sweats. He had no clean underwear, so that was that. Forced himself to put on a load of washing, then allowed himself to collapse on the couch, his mind whirling.

 

 

Changmin. Here.

 

 

Changmin.

 

 

_Here._

 

 

He sat and contemplated the strange swell of emotions in his chest.

 

 

 _Changmin is here_ , his brain repeated unhelpfully.

 

 

'I saw,' he said aloud to the empty room, 'I saw.'

 

 

_Changmin._

 

 

He'd let Changmin go. He'd let him go, and then he'd _really_ been gone, off into the big wide world again, further beyond reach than ever.

 

 

But now he was back, and he was in Yunho's shower.

 

 

Why?

 

 

Why was he here?

 

 

Changmin emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, one towel around his hips, and one around his shoulders.

 

 

He was fitter, now.  More muscular. Bigger than Yunho remembered. Different. But the way Yunho's heart sped up and his mouth went dry was the same.

 

 

He had the tv on, and pretended to watch it. Changmin, larger and more awkward but still unhesitating, came and sat beside him, his naked hairy thigh exposed as the towel fell open a little.

 

 

 _Don't look_ , Yunho warned himself, the white skin and dark hair catching the corner of his eye, _Don't look._

 

 

Changmin was genuinely half-watching the tv, half engaging with Yunho.

 

 

'Nice shower,' he said, 'Water pressure's great.'

 

 

Yunho grunted. He was concentrating far too hard on the solid muscle of Changmin's thigh pressing against his own. It was torturous, but it was all he was aware of. That, and the warmth, and the damp, and the smell--Changmin's smell.

 

 

 _You're too close_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

 

 

Changmin probably knew. No, Changmin definitely knew, because that was Changmin's hand on his thigh--yes, that was _Changmin's hand on his thigh_ , and _of course_ his body responded in an instant. _Of course_ it did.

 

 

Changmin was looking straight ahead, looking calm, his palm broad and warm and flat and still. Familiar, but far from relaxing.

 

 

Yunho grit his teeth and hoped for the best.  Hoped Changmin would be oblivious to the fact that he was already quaking, his stomach coiling, his heart swelling with old embers breathed straight back into life.

 

 

But Changmin knew. Of course he knew. Yunho was not wearing underpants, and little Yunho was stirring.

 

 

Yunho shifted guiltily, and swallowed hard as he felt Changmin's gaze drop.

 

 

He expected the younger man's old smirk; gentle mockery, maybe.

 

 

Instead, Changmin gave his cock a look of...what...tender sympathy?...and then calmly returned his eyes to the tv, but slid his hand up to stroke Yunho's slowly building erection.

 

 

'Have you done it with anyone? Since I've been away?' he asked, politely.

 

 

Yunho thought about it a moment. 'No,' he said, honestly, 'I haven't.'

 

 

Changmin, still looking at the tv, still stroking, inclined his head slowly. 'Me either,' he said.

 

 

Yunho, perplexed, said nothing. Changmin's fingers were gentle, warming him up slow, and he didn't have the willpower to stop it. It felt too good.

 

 

'I was going to, though,' Changmin continued. 'In New York, I met a guy at a bar, and he seemed okay, and I even went back to his place, every intention of just having it off and leaving. But then I couldn't do it. I don't remember what, exactly, but something made me think of you. Ended up sitting on a stranger's couch in a flat in New York spilling my guts about how I couldn't because actually this had never happened before but fuck if my heart wasn't somewhere else and it wouldn't've been right. Man, was that embarrassing. Nice guy though. Told me I was a stupid fuck. Told me to get my life together. Told me there's no such thing as a hundred per cent but he was a hundred per cent sure I needed to go back to whoever it was.'

 

 

He paused for a moment before turning to press his damp forehead to Yunho's temple. His eyes were closed; the gesture confiding.

 

 

'Yunho,' he said. 'It's you. I love you.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I wish I could hold to my thesis deadlines like I managed to keep to this one. Then I wouldn't have had to extend again.


	59. Time Works Wonders (III)

A noise came out of Yunho that he couldn’t explain.

 

 

 

The best description would probably have been to call it a groan, but it was more like the sound he would have made if Changmin had punched him in the stomach, or kicked him in the nuts. Each of three key words that had left Changmin’s mouth had had at least double the impact of a physical blow. They left Yunho stunned and reeling; clasping desperately at the edges of a reality which was changing shape around him much too quickly, in more or less the same shapes and patterns that Changmin’s fingers made as they teased gently and wrapped around his dick.

 

 

 

He whimpered, resenting how profoundly pathetic it sounded, but unable to hold the sound down in his throat. Changmin was too much. He was _too much_. And the stuff in Yunho’s heart was too much also: a roiling mass of emotion that refused to be repressed. Not to mention the filthy, hard, unapologetic lust that was rapidly piling up around the swell of emotions.

 

 

 

Changmin was saying nothing, now, but he was still close—much too close—and his hand too eloquent in its coaxing. Try as Yunho might to suppress the desperate tide of want coursing through him, Changmin had hit him in a way both invisible and deep, an earthquake from the ocean depths, and by the time its effects reached the shores of Yunho's consciousness, he was facing a tidal wave against which he had no hope.

 

 

 

Yunho’s final sound was a wordless plea, as he betrayed himself, and Changmin responded. Warm lips sought his; a kiss so heady that it left him disoriented, clutching blindly at Changmin’s shoulders.

 

 

 

Changmin’s kisses were an onslaught of increasingly convincing suggestions, right up until the point when suddenly the world span around, and when Yunho managed to reorient himself it was on his back, pressed down against the pillows, lying longways and looking up at Changmin’s strangely gentle face.

 

 

  
‘Hyung,’ he said, ‘It took me a long time to learn how to say that to you. I had to practice.’

 

 

 

‘Do you have any idea how much I fucking missed you?’ Yunho demanded.

 

 

 

‘Yes,’ said Changmin, without missing a beat, ‘but I’ll make it up to you.’

 

 

 

His hand was back on Yunho’s cock, working with a despicable and ruthlessly effective argumentative power that no man's hand should have.

 

 

 

‘Hyung, I know I didn’t do right by you. And I regret my choices,’ he said. ‘And honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give you everything you need. If you want a hero, that’s not me. I can’t show this part of me to the world. But the thing is, I’ll give it to you, hyung. I can’t sing it from the rooftops. I won’t do that. But I want to give myself to you. I want to wake up with you in the mornings. I want you to know what I feel for you. I want you to believe that I feel it for you. I still can’t say it the same way you do. I’m not brave enough. But if you can accept me how I am, then I want to try again. Not back to the start. I might not be brave, but I’m still different from how I used to be. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying. Will you let me try again, hyung?’

 

 

 

Yunho’s insides twisted strangely, and he nodded.

 

 

 

‘Thank you,’ said Changmin, softly, and then, with his enormous, unreadable, gentle eyes, slid down Yunho’s torso and pushed his shirt up, exposing his stomach and planting lingering kisses down his abdomen.

 

 

A small smile tipped up the corners of his lips as he pulled away, before moving his mouth down to the front of Yunho’s sweatpants, and taking the shaft of his dick playfully between his lips, toying with it; admiring the gooseflesh that swept over Yunho’s skin.

 

 

 

He let go, after a moment, to hook his fingers under Yunho’s waistband and look up at him questioningly.

 

 

 

‘May I…?’

 

 

 

‘ _Don’t ask so directly_ ,’ Yunho growled, annoyed and embarrassed by the query.

 

 

 

Changmin shrugged, tugged his pants down, and replied without words, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the base of Yunho’s cock, and parting his lips to lower them over the head.

 

 

 

His lips were thick, and his mouth warm and wet, and Yunho has forgotten just _how good_ it felt when he did that.

 

 

 

He watched, mesmerised, as Changmin slowly dipped and raised his head, moving carefully and steadily and patiently.

 

 

 

He maintained eye contact for a little while, but then turned his attentions fully to Yunho’s cock, closing his eyes and moaning softly around the weight of it in a way that had Yunho's nerves singing in response.

 

 

 

His hands, with minds of their own, moved down to Changmin's hair. This was a first, actually. If he'd had the presence of mind to be thinking, then he would have noticed that this was a different breed of intimacy.

 

 

 

This was both like and unlike the very first time they'd done it, in that hotel room after that awards ceremony.

 

 

 

It was similar because they were awkward; slightly unfamiliar with each other, slightly out of synch.

 

 

 

It was different because they were equals. Yunho had his hands free, and he used them, tangling his finger in Changmin's hair.

 

 

 

Changmin pulled off his cock, lips swollen and eyes hazy. 'You can pull,' he said, 'you won't hurt me.'

 

 

 

Yunho felt a minor flush of embarrassment course through him again at the directness of the statement. On a psychological level, he wasn't quite ready for this new, direct Changmin, telling it like it was. But on a physical level, he had more urgent needs than acknowledging his own inexplicably prudish sensibilities.

 

 

 

' _Pull_ ,' Changmin ordered, his lips right over the tip of his cock, and Yunho felt the embarrassment dissolve, and did as he was told.

 

 

 

As tightened his fist in Changmin's hair, the younger man moaned again, and resisted his grip, sinking his lips lower down Yunho's shaft with a guttural sound of pleasure. Changmin's own hands splayed over Yunho's thighs, and he wriggled up onto his knees to get a better angle, the towel slipping from his body to leave him damp and naked and statuesque, even with his ass in the air: now a perfectly sculpted specimen of manhood, instead of the willowy, uncomfortable guy Yunho had known before. Yunho let his eyes rake over the sight, wondering, somewhere in a part of his brain still capable of coherent thought, _when,_ exactly, Changmin had changed.

 

 

 

But the thoughts vanished and his breath hitched as Changmin slid his lips still lower down his shaft. As Changmin adjusted the angle, he felt the strange, warm caress of his throat around the head of his dick, accompanied by a soft gagging sound that possessed its own gross eroticism.

 

 

 

Momentarily concerned, he tugged at Changmin's short hair, trying to pull him up, but the younger man growled in protest, his grip tightening aggressively on Yunho's thighs. _Fuck off; I'm busy._

 

 

 

He didn't stay down long: just enough to send Yunho into a delirious state of overstimulation, both hands now buried tightly in his hair, hanging on for dear life.

 

 

 

Changmin could, no doubt, feel the throbbing, and sense the growing tremors of pleasure in Yunho's grip; he drew back carefully, and began to suck Yunho into his cheek instead, wet and slick and hot and filthy and _damn_ he looked good, right up until the point Yunho couldn't look anymore, and had to look at the ceiling instead. His blood roared in his ears, and he began to feel himself unravelling from the inside.

 

 

 

Changmin felt it, too, and pulled back just a little as Yunho gave in, shuddering and convulsing as he unloaded into Changmin's waiting mouth, his hands, still wrapped tightly in the younger man's hair, now stroking, soothing, thanking, blessing, praying; clinging, bewildered, because for a moment he knew nothing but the way the silky strands felt clasped between his fingers.

 

 

 

He collapsed into the couch, spent and panting, each exhalation taking a sigh out with it, as Changmin clambered over him like a muscular, relatively-hairless koala, nestling into the crook of his neck and wrapping his limbs around him, smelling of himself, and faintly (unavoidably) of Yunho's cum.

 

 

 

One hand crept up and stroked Yunho's hair; a surprisingly intimate and affectionate gesture.

 

 

 

'I missed you,' Yunho whispered, through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

 

 

 

'I'm sorry, Yunho,' said Changmin, softly, still stroking, 'I'm home now. For good.

 

 

 

'I love you.'


	60. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there was a big long break before this, and I lost some stuff, and I don't know how or why? :( But anyway, I tried to rewrite from memory, and it's not perfect, but here: I have no idea why this smut story turned into such a great big pile of fluff, but I hope it's acceptable.

Because of its highly public nature, Jung Yunho’s departure from the professional league sent a shockwave through the industry. Within a month, Yunho had retreated to his hometown of Gwangju. After another two months, Shim Changmin relocated, too. Back to America, it seemed, to pursue further study, or a business opportunity, or something. No one seemed sure, and there was no clear connection between the disappearance of the two of them in the public eye, but when Ryeowook, ever astute, pointed it out, Donghae realised that he’d noticed it without noticing as well. After all, he knew. And he’d been sad for Yunho, but it didn’t seem right to say anything about it. Yunho’s personal life was still his own, and Donghae didn’t want to rub salt in the wounds. Especially not when Yunho’s actions had protected _him_. It was a debt he would never be able to repay.

 

 

 

A few months after the initial event, the tremors of Yunho’s abrupt retirement bled over national borders, and began to be felt overseas. There were rumblings of international condemnation: there was a particularly strong reaction from the United States, where it seemed that homophobia in sports was already under the media spotlight.

 

 

 

And because the US was the king of the world, the club was forced to publically modify the club rules, to make specific protections against discrimination. Kim Kibum, who had been made acting captain in the vast space left by Yunho’s absence, confidently gave a media statement to the effect that discrimination would not be tolerated in Korea’s professional football league.

 

 

 

In a sequence of events no doubt related to these changes, Siwon also made a private apology to Ryeowook, and to Donghae. Donghae suspected that heavier hands than Siwon’s own were involved in this, but after, and only _after,_ Ryeowook had accepted the apology, he found it in his heart to do the same. After all, Siwon’s god demanded universal compassion and forgiveness.

 

 

 

Ryeowook stayed on as Donghae’s physiotherapist, and also became physio to a number of the other players. This inspired a very small degree of jealousy in Donghae, but with mild reluctance he accepted that it was the nature of Ryeowook’s profession to lay hands on others, and therefore unavoidable.

 

 

 

Another league season came and went.

 

 

 

Donghae came and went from Ryeowook’s apartment, too. Increasingly, he did more coming and less going, until eventually it made more sense for him to take his few possessions remaining in Hyukjae’s uncle’s flat, and move in with Ryeowook properly.

 

 

 

Things between them were not perfect. Ryeowook liked things just so, and Donghae never could seem to remember to pick up the bathmat. But time marched onwards, and, though they never achieved domestic bliss, they learned how to compromise, and Ryeowook slowly but surely learned to share himself with Donghae, not only as a lover, but as a trusted friend.

 

 

 

Also, when they did fight, the make-up sex was amazing.

 

 

 

Another season passed. And another. And after three years of nurturing the tender thing between them, Donghae was sure. So, one day, as they sat on the couch in the apartment, doing nothing (well, Donghae was doing nothing—Ryeowook was studying for some final exam, and drinking tea), he said:

 

 

 

‘Ryeowook-ah...you know how it’s off-season?’

 

 

 

‘Mmm?’ said Ryeowook, peering up over the rim of his glasses.

 

 

 

‘How would you feel about coming to Mokpo with me?’

 

 

 

Ryeowook focused on him properly, eyes questioning.

 

 

 

‘To meet my family.’

 

 

 

Sensing the seriousness of the conversation, Ryeowook set his book aside; reached for his tea. ‘Your family? Sure...that sounds nice.’

 

 

 

‘I don’t mean just a visit, though. I want you to meet them. I’m going to tell them that I love you, even though we can’t get married.’

 

 

 

Ryeowook choked on the liquid in his mouth, his eyes bulging with alarm, and exploded into a fit of coughing.

 

 

 

Donghae patted him firmly between the shoulderblades. He’d expected that response, maybe minus the choking.

 

 

 

By now it had become clear that Ryeowook’s parents would probably never know about them. They would not, it seemed, be very receptive. He found that sad, but he understood. He thought that probably, Ryeowook didn’t actually _want_ them to know, because Ryeowook wanted to protect _him_. He’d met them once or twice, but Ryeowook deliberately avoided bringing them together as a group. The two of them always found a way for Donghae to be other places when Ryeowook’s parents wanted to visit. But generally, it wasn’t difficult to keep them apart, since they didn’t even visit much. Usually, Ryeowook would go out to meet them.

 

 

 

Donghae’s family was not like that. Though they might be surprised, they would accept Ryeowook, because Donghae loved him.

 

 

 

He said as much to Ryeowook, who did not for one second believe him. He continued to refuse to believe him. He spent the entire drive to Mokpo telling Donghae he thought he was insane, and asking what he would do if there was an attempted homicide.

 

 

 

Donghae just smiled, and called a family meeting soon after they arrived.

 

 

 

When they knelt on the loungeroom floor, side-by-side, Ryeowook was so nervous that his hands shook. He kept his eyes trained firmly on the carpet, keeping a careful physical distance from Donghae’s side.

 

 

 

But Donghae knew it would be okay, and he was right. He placed a gentle hand on Ryeowook’s shaking one, and looked up, and said frankly that this was the person whom he loved.

 

 

 

After a long silence, his mother told Ryeowook to look up at her, and called him son-in-law.

 

 

 

Ryeowook began to cry, and in her infinite maternal wisdom, Donghae’s mother saw only a child who needed a hug, and gave him one.

 

 

 

They spent a week with Donghae’s family. They’d planned to drive back up to Seoul from Mokpo, but could not do so without passing through Gwangju, or they would have incurred Yunho’s wrath. Pulling up to the cafe he’d suggested, they found him waiting, leaning by the door.

 

 

 

Three years had not aged him: he still looked like an overgrown kitten, and still pulled them both into an affectionate embrace that left them slightly short of breath.

 

 

 

As he led them into the building, Donghae thought that, if anything, Yunho actually seemed more youthful. There were one or two more crinkles around the older man’s eyes when he smiled, but he seemed livelier _and_ more relaxed, all at once.

 

 

 

‘You look well, hyung,’ he said, as they slid into a booth.

 

 

 

Yunho laughed; a rich vibrato that pulled even Ryeowook’s lips into a grudging smile.

 

 

 

‘I’m not bad,’ he said. He hesitated, then, but the words burst out of him anyway. ‘Look, kids. Look out the window. Over there.’

 

 

 

Donghae’s eyes followed the line of Yunho’s extended finger, across the road.

 

 

 

‘A football field?’ said Ryeowook.

 

 

 

Yunho’s grin widened. ‘Kind of. Well—yes. But more than that, my young friends. More than that.’

 

 

 

Donghae looked to Ryeowook, and found equal bewilderment, perhaps less obviously expressed.

 

 

 

‘A camp!’ Yunho looked almost childlike in his delight. ‘A camp for underprivileged kids to come and learn to play football, and...and...to just _play_. To learn teamwork and have fun and be _kids_.’ He sat back, beaming, though his smile faltered suddenly at the sight of something behind them, replaced with an equally childish guilt.

 

 

 

When a six-foot something shadow fell over the table, there was no further need to wonder what it was.

 

 

 

Donghae glanced up to see Shim Changmin, and he did not look pleased, though the displeasure was only directed at one of them.

 

 

 

‘Jung Yunho...’

 

 

 

Changmin broke off as quickly as he’d begun, glancing instead towards Donghae and Ryeowook. ‘Welcome back to Gwangju,’ he said, politely. ‘This idiot—’ indicating Yunho ‘—is leaving out the rather large favour we have to ask of you, Donghae-ssi, which is, as a Jeollanam-do native, to please consider joining his beautiful but extraorinarily idealistic scheme to give the local youth something to do.’

 

 

 

He paused, and added, brusquely, ‘It’s good to see you both, too.’ Then, he rounded on Yunho, who was chewing on his lower lip.

 

 

‘As for _you,_ Jung, if you think you can get out of this meeting by using your friends as human shields, you have another think coming. The investors aren’t here to see _me._ Have you forgotten you’re the goddamn president of this still-theoretical grand plan? Now come on. We’re going to be late.’

 

 

 

‘Changmin-ssi, it’s not his fault—we were late,’ Donghae began, trying to intercede on Yunho’s behalf, but he was stopped a warning pressure on his knee, and Ryeowook picked up where he left off.

 

 

 

‘It’s not a problem, hyung-nim. There’s something we need to do, anyway. We’ll see you both for dinner, right?’

 

 

 

A lie—there was nothing they needed to do, but Donghae had learned to follow Ryeowook’s lead at times like this.

 

 

 

Yunho, licking his lips nervously, directed a weak protest at Changmin. ‘But Min, I don’t speak English, and...and I’m not wearing a suit...and...’

 

 

 

‘And that is why I will be there to _translate_ for you,’ Changmin answered, in a tone of disturbing calm, ‘And you look very _natural_.’ He turned, without further ado, and made for the door, only turning back to stare pointedly at their polo-shirted companion.

 

 

 

Yunho sighed and got to his feet, shooting Donghae a pained expression.

 

 

 

Ryeowook made to rise as well, and Donghae followed suit, but Yunho held out a hand towards them. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘At least stay for the coffees. I’ll...we’ll...I’ll call you, once it’s over.’

 

 

 

The coffees came, then, as though Yunho had summoned them by some magic, and he took his own and moved off hastily after Changmin.

 

 

 

Ryeowook stayed standing, but only to move around the table and sit across from Donghae instead of beside him.

 

 

 

‘Wait...investors?’

 

 

 

Ryeowook shrugged. ‘I can only imagine that that’s what Yunho needs. For his dream. And from _that—_ ’ he gestured to the two men passing though the door ‘—I can only assume that Changmin is trying to get them for him. Who knows? Maybe that’s one of the things he was doing in America.’

 

 

 

They watched in silence as Changmin and Yunho both stood at the driver’s door of a car, each with a hand on the handle, apparently having a small disagreement over who would drive. Evidently, Changmin won: he had both hands free, while Yunho’s dexterity was limited by his coffee cup.

 

 

 

Reluctantly, Yunho took the passenger seat.

 

 

 

Donghae watched on for long enough to observe Shim Changmin’s scowl disappear, and, moments later, he leaned over to kiss Jung Yunho, obscuring the latter’s face from view.

 

 

 

‘They’re like an old married couple,’ he murmured, and Ryeowook, sipping his coffee, hummed his agreement, tucking his feet between Donghae’s under the table.


End file.
